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VAL SINESTRA 


By 

MARTHA MORTON 

« 


y 



**Oh SoutJ Mysterious Vale 

Where Spirits d^well—of Light—of Darkest Nightt 

Who kno^s Thee, *Val Sinestra* 

—Thy Melody—Thy Madness?” 

[From the Romash Dialect] 


New York 

E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 
681 Fifth Avenue 








Copyright 1924 
By E. P. Dutton & Company 

All Rights Reserved 



fiS-7icO 


Printed in the United States of America 

I 

JAN-3’25 , 

©C1A815446 

■VO n/“ 



VAL SINESTRA 


BOOK I 


“The lives of men and women are pictures thrown upon- 
the screen of Time. 

The Past—its misty perspective, its legendary charm;. 
Truth veiled in Fiction.” 



VAL SINESTRA 

BOOK I 
1 

ABOUT twenty-five years ago, Pedro Gonzola 
j \ bought that handsome brown stone residence 
at the corner of Twelfth Street and Fifth 
Avenue, and presented it to his bride on their wed¬ 
ding day. As the name implied, they were of 
Spanish origin, and known as devout Catholics, sup¬ 
porting the Church spiritually and materially. 

Shortly before Julie was born, her father died 
suddenly, stricken down with heart failure. The 
young widow was stunned by the loss of her hand¬ 
some adoring husband; her uncontrollable grief 
nearly cost her the life of her coming child, who suf¬ 
fered from her mother’s anguish—at least that’s 
what the good Dr. McClaren said. 

After her great misfortune Mrs. Gonzola gave 
up the world and devoted herself to her religion and 
the care of her little daughter. Julie was sent to the 
Convent of the Sacred Heart In Seventeenth Street. 
The Sisters educated her under the personal super¬ 
vision of her mother; their reports were satisfac- 
1 


2 


VAL SINESTRA 


tory; “the child was docile and receptive, but 
inclined to emotional exaggeration; she would re¬ 
main in the chapel long after the other children had 
left, and once they found her prostrate before the 
Virgin in a state of ecstatic self-oblivion, which 
ended in a fit of hysteria. There was no cause for 
worry, as otherwise she was “full of life” and a 
general favorite. Mrs. Gonzola tried conscien¬ 
tiously to impress her daughter with the dignity of 
her wealth, social position, and family distinction; 
but as the girl grew into a woman, there was an 
ever-present irritating sense of failure. 

Julie Gonzola at sixteen, with her brilliant exotic 
beauty, was a mystery to her friends, her mother, 
herself. She was acutely conscious of strange emo¬ 
tions, which she instinctively concealed; hers was a 
nature of unexpected impulses, tragic possibilities, 
baffling secrets. She came of an old stock on her 
father’s side, and on her mother’s she could look 
down a long corridor, where she saw shadowy 
forms, which frightened her. She was different 
from her girl friend, who was care-free, bubbling, 
sparkling, dashing along like a brook which over¬ 
flows its bounds out of sheer rapture. 

Maud Ailsworth lived down the street. There 
were no complications in her life. She ruled her 
mother, who was an invalid, and physically her in¬ 
ferior. Maud romped all day long in the street 
with the boys. Mrs. Gonzola never allowed Julie 
to do that; she was very indulgent in her way, deny- 


VAL SINESTRA 


3 


ing the girl nothing—^but freedom. Julie was out¬ 
wardly submissive; she was sorry for her mother, 
who sat alone in her room crying, silent iron tears 
of impotent despair. 

There were two boys in the street whom Maud 
liked; as she grew older she determined to marry 
one of them, but she found to her great disappoint¬ 
ment they were both hot after Julie. Floyd Garri¬ 
son, a pretty boy of an old American family, was 
very well brought up; Martin Steele was a mongrel, 
a brute, a ruffian, but there was something very 
likable about him. Maud looked on, watched them 
wrestling for the privilege of carrying Julie’s books 
when she came from school, with her maid. There 
were fist fights for her as children, rivalry as youths, 
and bitterness as men. But Maud wasn’t discour¬ 
aged; Julie couldn’t marry both of them; there 
would be always one left for her. Then she had 
Tom Dillon in reserve; he was common, but she 
owned him; he was her slave. 

Julie was afraid of Martin Steele; he had bad 
manners and a violent temper. He was always 
mussing up her hair, and winding her curls around 
his fingers. Floyd was too polite to do that. There 
was a party at Maud Ailsworth’s; Tom Dillon, that 
mischievous imp, put out the lights. The boy next 
to Julie kissed her, pressing her to him with terrible 
force; it was Martin. After that, he kissed her 
whenever he found her alone, and he managed it 
often. She liked his hot unboyish kisses. 


4 


VAL SINESTRA 

2 


The Garrisons had lived four generations In a 
little wooden house In East Twelfth Street, “a very 
pretty shanty” Martin called It, set back, with a 
garden, and a wooden fence to protect the lawn and 
flowers from passing vandals. 

A portrait of the ancestor who founded the 
family fortune hangs today in our Museum. “Yan 
Geritsen, baker,” endowed with business sagacity, 
bought land under water in New Amsterdam for 
“thirty cents,” left it to his son, with orders not to 
sell. Succeeding generations drained and developed 
it. The name smelt of newly baked bread; it grad¬ 
ually evolved itself into Garrison. They were one 
of the fast disappearing families, who remained as 
they began—modest and thankful. They brought 
up their son with a sense of responsibility, as trustee 
for the coming son. There were no girls as far 
back as could be remembered; each family branch 
had one son. Floyd’s father, “Jimmy” Garrison, 
married a school marm. He became acquainted 
with her in Boston. She was very poor, but de¬ 
scended from the Aldens. Prudence Alden was a 
pale silent girl with a hidden fountain of irrepressi¬ 
ble love In all Its rare purity. Young Garrison’s 
friends couldn’t see, what he saw in her. 

Garrison had never been In business; he disliked 
the everlasting talk about money which was rapidly 
becoming God under the title of the “Almighty” 


VAL SINESTRA 


5' 


dollar. He had many acquaintances and one faith¬ 
ful friend, Colonel Garland, a Southern gentleman^ 
who had made a reputation “up North” as a cor¬ 
poration lawyer, when trusts were springing up over 
night like toadstools. The Colonel retained his 
sombrero, his soft accent, his passionate devotion to 
a few friends, and many women. When Jimmy 
Garrison put the administration of his estate into 
Colonel Garland’s hands, it was intact, just as hi^ 
father had left it. 

“Let us pull down those old hulks and build upj 
warehouses,” said the Colonel. Garrison refused 
to consider that. 

“The estate was not bought yesterday, for specu¬ 
lation. It has always brought us enough to live on 
modestly, and something over; if I get four peU 
cent., I’m well satisfied.” 

In time, modern buildings were erected on both 
sides of the Garrison “hulks,” which, although kept 
clean and in repair, had to be rented below the 
market value. Conservative policy has its good 
side; many went under in the frenzy of over-build¬ 
ing. In such a young country the cult of silence,^ 
material rest, creative thought were as yet unknown | 
the man who did not create capital was considered 
an idler; Garrison continued to the end of his peace¬ 
ful, worryless life, a gentleman. 

The first realization of pain was the sudden death 
of his beloved Prudence; he had to live for his boy 
and looked about, seeking a sustaining force. 


6 


VAL SINESTRA 


He rigged up a workshop in the top of his house, 
and took to modeling figures, which were very well 
done—every-day people he had known, the little 
Italian shoe boy, the newspaper woman, his friends, 
idealized of course, his wife in every mood, his boy. 
He was particularly successful with a smiling old 
Irishman, a pipe In his mouth, a hod on his shoulder, 
standing at the foot of a ladder looking upward. 
He called that figure “the Ancestor,” which title 
was a secret source of amusement to him, although 
he was too good-natured to say whose ancestor. 

When asked the Inevitable question, 

“What business are you In, Mr. Garrison?” 

Garrison would answer gravely, 

“I muddle in clay.” 

3 

The Steeles lived next door to the Garrisons in an 
ugly high-stoop, four-story brick mansion, which 
threw a dark shadow on one side of the little 
garden, necessitating Garrison to move his flower¬ 
beds away. 

Martin was five years older than Floyd and 
twenty years more experienced. He loved Floyd in 
his way, but love was not an element of his nature. 
Floyd looked up to him, as a little boy would to an 
elder one who condescended to be his friend; he was 
sorry for Martin because Mrs. Steele was only his 
stepmother, that was what was wrong with him—he 


VAL SINESTRA 


7 


never had a “real” mother. Mrs. Steele was born 
Dolly Winthrop of Boston; she was very tall, very 
thin, very straight, with small transparent ears lying 
flat against her head. The only large thing about 
her was her flow of language—that was tremendous. 
Mrs. Steele’s “family tree” reposed on the parlor 
table in a red velvet album—“reposed” is a very 
inappropriate word, for she never gave the poor 
thing any rest. She was constantly turning over its 
pages, adding, multiplying, never subtracting, until 
it fell quite to pieces, but she convinced the old New 
Yorkers of her right to be one of them. 

The “exclusives” of Massachusetts never forgave 
Dolly Winthrop’s marriage with “that Steele man” 
who was fat, florid, wordless, and a widower with a 
child. There were still spots in the Union where 
pedigree and culture were of more value than 
“money”; but Dolly Winthrop had made her calcu¬ 
lation and it turned out a good bargain. Her hus¬ 
band and his father devoted all their time to 
business; they accumulated great wealth, and were 
not perceptible in her richly woven society tapestry. 
There was one she couldn’t wipe out—that terrible 
boy Martin. She tried honestly to make something 
of him, but he was not to be moulded. She took him 
to her summer home in Nantucket. The Winthrop 
Homestead had ship-lamps, a model of the May¬ 
flower, clocks that struck “bells”—numbered hours 
were disdained; there were also stuffed seagulls 
which Martin set up as skittles, and a tottering old 


8 


VAL SINESTRA 


sailor who took care of the garden and gave the 
necessary atmosphere. Aunt Priscilla, Mrs. Steele’s 
maiden sister, lived there all the year. In Nan¬ 
tucket, Martin’s capacity of hatred found fertile 
soil for expansion; he hated the ocean; its unceasing 
roar fretted him; he thought of a big sea monster 
in chains, writhing, howling, foaming at the mouth. 
He hated Aunt Priscilla, who was Calvinist, Puri¬ 
tan, Patriot, anti-everything else. She took unusual 
pains to enlighten the “little savage” about the dis¬ 
tinguished pedigree of his stepmother’s family. One 
day she read to him for three hours, in her correct 
English “twang,” the history of those good old 
Colonial times, when her direct ancestor was a Judge 
in Salem. The boy’s eyes took on a glitter which 
meant mischief. 

“I’d like to be a Judge in them times.” 

“You mean, you’d like to have been a Judge in 
those times,” corrected Aunt Priscilla. 

“Have been,” mumbled the boy. 

Aunt Priscilla was delighted; at last she had 
awakened the pride of ancestry in that little soul. 

“Now tell me, dear, what would you have done 
if you had been a Judge in Salem.” 

“I’d burn you.” 

4 

One day Floyd found out there was a mystery on 
the top floor of the Steele house; it was Martin’s 


VAL SINESTRA 


9 


fourteenth birthday. He invited Floyd to ice-cream 
and cake. “Julie Gonzola was coming.” There 
was plenty to cat, but Floyd lost his appetite looking 
at little Julie sitting up on a high chair with all the 
best things piled before her. She let Martin pile 
them, but she didn’t touch them—she couldn’t, in a 
strange house. 

Toward evening the maid came to take her home. 
The two boys stood at the window as she went past 
enveloped in white furs, her little feet stepping out 
firmly, her head erect. 

Martin’s eyes snapped. 

“I’m going to marry Julie.” 

“Not if I know it.” 

Martin turned and swept the boy with a cold dis¬ 
dain terrible in one so young. It hurt Floyd; he 
remembered that look, years after. He said noth¬ 
ing, but turned to go. 

Martin stopped him. 

“Stay with me; I’m lonesome.” 

There was a touch of pathos in his voice. 

“Come, I’ll show you some family relics.” 

He led the way to the garret, four stories high; 
it was filled with old furniture, spinning wheels, oil 
paintings—some wretchedly bad, others fairly good, 
all with heavy gold frames; every piece was ticketed 
with a name and date, in the different generations of 
the family. 

Then Martin became confidential. 

“I’ll tell you something, but don’t mention it to 


10 


VAL SINESTRA 


my mother. These things are all fakes; she haunts 
the auction sales, she’s a good judge—she knows 
what fits in, she’s got a whole lot more in storage. 
We’re going to move away from here.” 

Floyd got a chill. 

“What! You were born here I You will never 
leave your home?” 

Martin’s mocking laugh rang out. 

“Oh, you’re too sentimental. She’s not going to 
sell the house; that wouldn’t look well. She’s going 
to fill it with our ‘family’ antiques, and donate it to 
the city as an ‘Art Museum.’ ” 

Floyd was struck silent as usual by Martin’s ter¬ 
rible lack of heart. 

“What’s that?” 

“What?” 

“Somebody singing.” 

Martin looked troubled. 

“Nonsense, there’s nobody up here. Let’s go 
down.” 

He drew Floyd into the hall; there was a door 
opposite. 

It was somebody singing—a man’s voice, broken, 
harsh, rising, and falling in a strange inflection. 

Martin, with a look of fear mingled with shame, 
tried to draw Floyd downstairs. A heavy fist on 
the door pushed it open. A man of gigantic stature 
rushed out. At first glance, Floyd saw only a pair 
of wonderful mocking eyes—Martin’s eyes; there 
was a strange light in them. The man was mad. 


VAL SINESTRA 


11 


Martin sprang at him, tried to push him back into 
the room. He was too strong for the boy. Then 
Martin coaxed him. Was that Martin’s voice, so 
loving, so sweet? He spoke in a foreign tongue, 
strange to Floyd. The old man looked curiously at 
Floyd, then said “Grutsie” and bowed respectfully. 
He learnt afterwards “Grutsie” was Swiss dialect 
for “I greet you.” 

The man had huge hands, knotty, sun-dried; the 
open flannel shirt revealed a chest covered with thick 
hair. He had an enormous head, and a thick white 
mane falling over his eyes. He wore corduroy 
trousers to the knees and a pair of high deerskin 
boots with heavy nails in the soles. He paced un¬ 
ceasingly. The floor was covered with indentures. 
Martin shut the door carefully, took down a harness 
with bells which hung on the wall, threw it over the 
old man’s head, cracking a heavy whip, yelling at 
the top of his voice, lashing him with sharp quick 
blows. The old man growled like a beaten beast; 
the whip hurt him; the young devil was strong; in 
the sensual intoxication of brute force, they forgot 
the horrified boy looking on. 

The door was flung open. Mrs. Steele stood 
there, deathly pale. 

“Stop that noise, you’ll rouse the neighbors; how 
dare you bring Floyd up here?” She grasped Mar¬ 
tin’s hand, pushing him toward the door. 

The old man slunk into a corner; he was evi¬ 
dently afraid of her. 


12 


VAL SINESTRA 


“Let me go I” roared Martin. 

“I won’t. You’ll be punished for this.” Then a 
struggle followed; Floyd never forgot it. She held 
him with her small strong hands; he bit them. She 
struck him across the mouth; he kicked her. She 
cried out with pain, but she held him fast. Floyd, 
with a terrified cry, rushed down the stairs and out 
of the house. 

5 

Mr. Garrison was working at his clay figures, 
thinking how much Floyd was growing like his 
mother; he had her sensitive, ideal nature. The 
boy’s love for Julie might be a great blessing; it 
might be the contrary. . . . He would like to live 
long enough to see that beautiful little girl a woman. 

Floyd broke into the room, sobbing out what he 
had seen. Mr. Garrison quieted him, and told him 
the story of the Steele family, as he had it from his 
friend. Colonel Garland. 

The old man in the garret was Martin’s grand¬ 
father, a Swiss peasant, who had come to America 
in the steerage, with his boy, a child of four. He 
obtained a position as waiter in a downtown cafe, 
and the boy grew up in the streets. In ten years 
the father was head waiter in a Fifth Avenue hotel, 
frequented by Wall Street men. He never spoke 
more than a waiter’s English. His boy came out of 
school with a correct knowledge of grammar, but 
was silent, uncouth, unfriendly. Waiting for his 


VAL SINESTRA 


13 


father one night, in the kitchen of the hotel, he 
noticed one of the dishwashers, a very young blonde 
girl, crying bitterly. He questioned her; she told 
him she was Swiss, like himself, that she had been 
in America a short time, and was very unhappy. 
He comforted her. When it became no longer pos¬ 
sible to conceal her condition, he married her; this 
was a bitter blow to the old waiter, who had, in 
those twenty years of deprivation, saved one hun¬ 
dred thousand dollars, and wanted to make a gentle¬ 
man out of his son. Fate favored him. The girl 
died giving birth to a boy. The doctors could not 
understand the case; she was a very strong, healthy 
peasant; but Martin in a burst of anguish insisted 
she had died of homesickness. 

Mr. Garrison explained to Floyd the word 
“nostalgia,” originating with the Swiss, which meant 
their longing for their native soil when absent; the 
pain is intolerable, ending often in death. Floyd 
was very sorry for the poor peasant mother. 

“Then what happened?” 

“The old man started in the hotel supply busi¬ 
ness; he rented one of my shanties on the river 
front. The firm is still there. I used to see old 
Steele walking up and down before that sign on the 
door. ‘Martin Steele and Son.’ I could never make 
friends with young Steele; he was sullen, wordless, 
and seemed to be out of his element. Then they 
bought the house next door and lived there a soli¬ 
tary life. Your mother was sorry for lonely little 


14 


VAL SINESTRA 


Martin, and had him often in here to play with you. 
When Dolly Winthrop came from Boston to visit 
us, we saw she had her eye on the rich widower.’* 

‘‘And she got him,” said Floyd. 

“Yes, unfortunately for him.” 

“And what happened then, father?” 

“She dominated those poor men with her culture, 
shamed them with her pedigree, crushed them with 
her contempt. The old man fell into bad habits, 
drank to excess. His mind failed; people spoke of 
an illiterate grandfather in the house, but visitors 
never saw him.” . . . 

After that episode in the garret, Mrs. Steele’s 
patience with the boy gave out. She insisted on send¬ 
ing him to a strict military school. He’d come home 
in the summertime when she was in Nantucket, and 
prowl about the city during the long evenings. In 
Twelfth Street, seemingly deserted, he’d run up and 
down stoops, pulling bells; then the “spring rollers” 
would fly up, and he’d count the genteel poor who 
were sweltering in New York; when he grew too old 
for such pranks, he would spend his evenings in the 
garret watching his father and grandfather playing 
a strange game of cards called “Tarac” and listen¬ 
ing to their jargon. He learnt the game and the 
jargon, with great rapidity. 

His father, who was always afraid of troubling 
his wife, died suddenly at his desk; then the old 
man’s mind bolted. 


VAL SINESTRA 


15 


Mrs. Steele in a burst of confidence said one day 
to Mr. Garrison: 

“It may be very wicked of me, but I pray to God 
not to let him live long.” Her prayer was an¬ 
swered; unrighteous prayers usually are. After that, 
Mrs. Steele closed the house and went to live in. 
Boston; later she sent Martin to Harvard. Floyd 
wrote him several times, but his letters were not an¬ 
swered; it was many years before the two boys met 
again. 

6 

Floyd didn’t go to college—his father couldn’t 
spare him, but he gave him a good classical educa¬ 
tion, under the best professors. Mr. Garrison 
wasn’t training his son for business; he wanted him 
to be a man of culture. They took long walks Inta 
the countr)% with Emerson, Hawthorne, Longfellow 
for companions. Thoreau was revolutionary, a dis¬ 
jointed mind. The historical novels then in vogue 
were read and reread, also foreign literature. 
Realism, Nihilism, and all the other isms were 
looked into and studied as the result of “unhealthy” 
European conditions. Mr. Garrison moulded his 
son in good clay. 

Sunday was the happiest day in the week for 
Floyd. He would slip out of the little Dutch Re¬ 
form church around the corner, restless when the 
pastor strung out his sermon fearing he should miss 
Julie, who went to the Cathedral. Lately, he was 


16 VAL SINESTRA 

fortunate to find her there without her mother. 

Good Friday,—the Cathedral draped in black. 
The sorrow-laden music, the odor of incense gave 
him a sensuous feeling of emotion. Julie came down 
the aisle, her prayer book pressed against her heart, 
her eyes seeking things beyond this world. It 
seemed to the impressionable youth a desecration to 
‘‘bring her back.” 

He looked at the sad faces and bowed heads. 

“It’s wonderful after so many centuries, this 
sense of personal loss in the people; life would be 
unbearable without the Easter joy, the lilies, the 
Resurrection.” 

His words sounded poetical to him as he spoke; 
he was very young. Julie smiled; she seemed less 
divine out in the sunlight. 

“I don’t feel that way, but Mother is ill and in¬ 
sists on my going; an empty pew doesn’t look well.” 

Floyd was shocked. He had read in the “great” 
writers those traditional truisms we repeat mechani¬ 
cally. “The woman’s emotional nature endows her 
with the gift of Faith; she has held aloft the Banner 
of Religion In the great struggle against skepticism.” 

They walked down Fifth Avenue. There was an 
expression he had never seen in Julie’s calm face, 
an indefinable something, as If she had pulled down 
a veil over her eyes. Before her house, she didn’t 
give him her hand as usual. She was looking ex¬ 
pectantly at the upper windows; he followed her 
gaze. She waved her hand, smilingly; there was a 


VAL SINESTRA 17 

face looking out; the light made it transparent like 
yellow wax. In a moment it was gone. 

“Who was that?’’ 

“My grandfather.” 

“Why haven’t I seen him before?” 

“He doesn’t come down-stairs.” 

“Is he ill?” 

“No. I’ve wanted to tell you for some time, but 
Mother said it was nobody’s business.” 

Floyd was hurt. 

“Anything that concerns you is of vital interest to 
me. You know that, don’t you, Julie?” 

“Yes, I know it.” 

She braced her shoulders, looking him straight in 
the face; she was very proud. He liked that; most 
girls held themselves too cheaply. 

“My grandfather doesn’t come down because he 
disapproves of the way we live. He says we have 
sold our souls.” 

“I don’t understand you.” 

“We are Jews. You needn’t come here again.” 
She went quickly up the steps and entered the house 
without looking back. 

Floyd walked down the street towards his house. 
He was terribly excited; socially, he had never 
known any Jews. He had seen some dark fellows 
who were wonders at mathematics and chess; boys 
of their creed were limited in numbers In the col¬ 
leges, kept out of social clubs, but somehow they 
managed to filter through everywhere. What did 


18 


VAL SINESTRA 


it mean? How could the Gonzolas be Jews? They 
were Catholics. 

A young man came towards him, of striking ap¬ 
pearance, with a touch of something about him net 
American. He put out his hand laughingly to 
Floyd. It was Martin. 

“You’ve done with me?” 

“You deserve it. Why didn’t you answer my 
letters?” 

“Oh! I had no time; they kept my nose to the 
grindstone. I walked off with the prizes just to 
spite Aunt Priscilla. Mother is very proud of me; 
she calls me ‘my son’ now.” There was the old 
mocking glitter in his eye; he had not changed. 

“Don’t be angry with me.” He took Floyd’s 
arm. Martin could be very winning when he wanted 
to. “You’ve grown Into a fine, handsome fellow, 
with the unmistakable brand of the aristocrat; 
strong with the women, eh?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“As gone as ever on Julie?” 

“More than ever.” 

Then Floyd shot out a question. 

“Do you know the history of the Gonzolas?” 

Martin’s answer came back as quickly. 

“Yes, they are baptized Jews.” 

A red streak flushed Floyd’s forehead. 

“Tell me about them.” 

Martin leaned against the gate, revelling in 
Floyd’s agitation. 


VAL SINESTRA 


19 


“The Gonzolas go back to the time when the 
Church in Spain commenced war on the Jews; thou¬ 
sands of them were baptized, but they still practiced 
their religion in secret. Romantic, isn’t it?” 

“No; terrible.” 

“Many of the Catholic Gonzolas became Bishops, 
Cardinals, and high state officials on account of their 
wealth and culture, but others, true to their Faith, 
fled to Amsterdam, where they founded the great 
banking house which spread its branches all over 
Europe. Julie’s grandfather was a handsome, dash¬ 
ing fellow. He married in the family—they all do 
—but he had an affair with an Austrian actress 
which lasted for years. Their son was brought up 
in the religion of his mother who became pious with 
age and as expiation, dedicated him to the Church. 
She died before he was ordained, and Gonzola, nat¬ 
urally opposed, easily persuaded the boy against it 
—and sent him to America where he took the family 
name. The bank he founded here was successful; 
he became very rich. This bastard was Julie’s 
father.” 

“But they are Catholics, not Jews,” insisted 
Floyd. 

“That’s the joke of It,” laughed Martin. “An 
ironic witticism, an impish trick of Fate. Pedro 
came with letters from his father, to an old friend, 
Joseph Abravanel, an orthodox Jew, a fanatic, of 
Spanish origin with infernal pride of race. He 
boasts his ancestors provided money to help Colum- 


20 


VAL SINESTRA 


bus fit out his ship. Pedro fell desperately in love 
with Ruth Abravanel; those Spanish Jewesses are 
handsome, but most of them are old maids, because 
they won’t marry the Germans whom they look 
down upon.” 

“That old man I saw today at the window?” 

“Is Joseph Abravanel, Mrs. Gonzola’s father.” 

“But how did you know all this?” 

“IVe heard it scores of times from Julie. The 
crossing of the races interests me; IVe got my own 
ideas about that. I’m waiting to see how it comes 
out.” 

“It’s shocking for people to change their re¬ 
ligion.” 

Martin laughed a bit too loud, Floyd thought. 

“What’s the difference? Who believes in it any¬ 
how; do you?” 

Floyd evaded a direct answer. 

“We practice many things out of respect for our 
parents and our social position.” He was undeni¬ 
ably well brought up. 

“There’s one thing I like about Julie,” said Mar¬ 
tin. “In spite of everything, she remains a true 
daughter of her race. I like in her the sensuousness 
of the Oriental; oh, I don’t mean sexness—that may 
also be there latent; I hope it is. I see in her the 
Shulamite maiden who gets up from her couch at 
night and goes to seek her lover.” 

“What do you know about Julie? You’ve been 
away so long.” 


VAL SINESTRA 


211 


‘‘IVe been a week in New York.” 

Floyd was angry, injured. “Perhaps you’ve been 
writing to her all this time.” 

“Perhaps I have.” 

“I suppose she was very glad to see you.” 

“I don’t know. I was mad to see her. I couldn’t 
wait; I went straight there.” 

There was a look of passion in Martin’s face. 
Floyd hated him. He turned and entered the gate. 
Martin was at his elbow. 

“Pm coming In to see your father.” 

At dinner Martin kept up a fire of witty criti¬ 
cisms. Floyd was silent, preoccupied. 

“Your house has been shut up for some time. 
Where is your mother?” 

“In Nantucket. She loves the shores where her 
ancestors landed. In sailing vessels.” 

“Your mother’s pride of nationality Is quite nat¬ 
ural; I also feel It.” 

“You don’t parade it. My mother makes capital 
out of It.” 

“But,” Insisted Mr. Garrison, “you are an Ameri¬ 
can ; you were born here; you know no other home. 
English Is your mother tongue.” 

“Yes, but race Is stronger than language. My 
people were Swiss peasants. I may look and speak 
like a gentleman, but sometimes the lout In me Is 
hard to suppress.” 

There was a silence. Mr. Garrison changed the 
subject 


22 


VAL SINESTRA 


“Are you going into your father’s business?” 

“No—I’d smash it with my mad notions.” Then 
he flashed a bright look. “I’ve been daubing In oil; 
it’s the only thing that interests me. I shall go to 
Paris to study, if I live.” 

Mr. Garrison was all animation. “That’s very 
good news. You will live; you’re young, strong.” 

“Who knows—^America is going into the whole¬ 
sale slaughter business. She needs butchers.” 

“You mean—” 

“I think we’ll be pushed Into the War.” 

Floyd was all attention. He spoke with a thrill 
in his voice. 

“If it comes, we Americans will not be wanting 
in patriotism.” 

Martin didn’t seem to feel the insinuation. 

“Patriotism, bah! Who cares? We’ll have to 
go; if we don’t, they’ll shoot us.” 

Mr. Garrison was sitting with his head In his 
hands. Floyd arose and went to him. He had been 
falling for some time, complained of dizziness. Dr. 
McClaren couldn’t discover any organic trouble. 
Floyd, who watched every change of expression, 
saw him grow pale. 

“Father—^you don’t feel well.” 

“Oh yes!—but I think I’ll go and rest awhile.” 

He rose from the chair, staggered; Martin caught 
him, carried him up, and laid him on the bed. 

Floyd bent over his father, frantically begging 
him to speak. The stricken man raised his hand In 
a mute blessing, then closed his eyes. 


VAL SINESTRA 


23 


To Floyd, the next few weeks were chaotic; time, 
space, light, darkness lost all meaning. Martin 
never left him during those black days; always 
there in the sleepless horror of the night, to read to 
him, to go out and pace the streets with him, when 
the walls became insupportable. He would have 
gone under without Martin. 

The funeral over, the will read by Colonel Gar^ 
land, the sole executor, the few distant relatives 
from far and near come and gone, Floyd took up 
again the routine of life. Mr. Garrison had left 
everything to his son, whom he hoped would marry 
young and be happy in the old home, leaving it to 
his son after him. The Garrisons had always lived 
well, in a modest way, befitting their position. He 
was sure Floyd would keep up the family tradition. 
He left money to many philanthropic institutions 
and to his club where he and his father before him 
had spent many pleasant hours and where he hoped 
his boy would sit many years after him. 

Colonel Garland, commenting on the will to 
Martin, said: 

“A sane, righteous testament. He was a good 
man... ' 


7 

In the months that followed, Floyd saw little of 
Julie. She called several times with her mother, 
who was very sweet and amiable. 


24 


VAL SINESTRA 


“I hope when you feel more like seeing people 
you’ll come to us often,” said Mrs. Gonzola. 

Floyd looked at Julie, who smiled at him, and re¬ 
turned the pressure of his hand. Martin was a 
great deal at the Gonzolas’, but he didn’t mention 
that to Floyd. One Sunday afternoon Mrs. Gon¬ 
zola came into the parlor, Martin was sitting very 
close to Julie, reading in rich passionate tones a love 
poem by Oscar Wilde; Julie started up and Martin 
left, but all that day she couldn’t meet her mother’s 
clairvoyant eyes. 

“I don’t like him, Julie. He’s no class. He was 
an unmannerly boy and he’s a dangerous man. I’ve 
told James to say you’re out, the next time he calls. 
If you meet him accidentally, avoid him. 

“Yes, Mother,” said Julie. After that she saw 
him often with the assistance of a sympathetic 
French te-acher, whose room was post-office and ren¬ 
dezvous for the lovers. 

Martin gave Julie glimpses of “life.” He took 
her to all kinds of strange places—a chop suey 
restaurant, with its unpalatable dishes, soft lights, 
and insidious Chinamen; a dancing cafe which at 
that time was not supposed to be a place for young 
ladies—but best of all was Hippolyte. 

Hippolyte’s Parlor flaunted on Fifth Avenue. It 
had a magnificent plate glass show window, fitted 
with Circassian walnut, in which was one red feather 
fan on a cushion of Nile green velvet, one jeweled 
comb, and a Pierrot costumed in black silk with a 


VAL SINESTRA 


25 


large white ruff, his face wonderful in its languid 
perversity. Up the side street there was a private 
door which opened halfway to let in ladies heavily 
veiled. Julie’s ambition was to see what was behind 
that fascinating door; today it is no longer a mys¬ 
tery. In the Middle Ages, Hippolyte would have 
been a miracle man summoned to a fair Venetian 
to deepen the red of her hair, the rose in her cheeks, 
the marvel of her eyes—selling for a purse of gold, 
charms to rob a rival of a coveted lover. Times have 
not changed, nor people; only appearances. 

Martin took Julie into the shop one day and in¬ 
troduced her to Hippolyte, who pronounced her 
“ravissante”; thereupon Martin bought a costly box 
of perfume. Julie was afraid to take it home. 

*T’ll settle that,” laughed Martin, and poured it 
over her, then they ran around the reservoir to get 
rid of the odor. Mrs. Gonzola noticed it, but said 
nothing. 

Julie was standing at the window waiting for her 
mother. Her gloved hands Impatiently agitating 
the curtains. 

*‘Mother, the car is here. I shall be late for my 
music lesson.” 

The voice answering from upstairs was nervous, 
trembling. “It’s Impossible for me to go with you 
today; I’m not well.” 

A flash Illumined Julie’s face, but her voice was 
under perfect control. “I’m sorry.” 

From the upper window, her mother watched her, 


26 


VAL SINESTRA 


music-roll in hand, stepping into the car. Mrs. 
Gonzola realized more and more acutely that her 
lovely child was developing into a beautiful woman; 
there was no feeling of joyful pride. Horrible, 
agonizing fear stopped the current of her blood. 

Julie, alone in the car, drew a long breath. The 
pink of her lips turned red, the color slowly over¬ 
flowing into her cheeks. She pulled the cord, asked 
the chauffeur in her soft, sensuous voice to stop at 
the nearest drug store; there she telephoned, then 
drove to the house of her professor. She was a 
gifted pianiste; she played with a sure, velvety touch, 
surmounting with ease all technical difficulties. The 
professor went into ecstasies about the beautiful 
child-woman with “Eternal Love in her fingers.” 

The car turned into the Park. Martin was walk¬ 
ing up and down by the little lake. He hated to 
wait. She never kept an appointment; if she didn’t 
come today he was through. His heart leaped when 
he saw her. The girl had a terrible power over him. 
She said smilingly: 

“We’ll go across town and up Riverside Drive 
for an hour. Then I’ll drop you at the club.” 

They sped along in the car. He pulled down the 
shades, drew off her gloves, tearing the buttons in 
his haste, crushed her two hands in his moist hot 
ones, spoke quickly, panting with excitement: 

“I’ve thought it all out. I’m going to your 
mother tonight.” 

“No! No!” gasped Julie. “Write to her first.” 


VAL SINESTRA 


27 


“I have written to her, as politely as I knew how. 
I told her I loved you and wanted you to be my 
wife.” 

He read the answer, his voice shaking with anger 
and wounded pride: 

I have no words to reply to your impertinent letter. Julie will 
not marry until she is of age. You are not the man I consider 
worthy of her. You take it for granted that she is willing. I 
know her better. She will not consent. I warn you not to molest 
her with further attentions, and consider the matter closed. 

She crouched in the corner, speechless. 

“She will blame me. She will say I encouraged 
you.” 

“You did, didn’t you?” 

“Yes, but marriage I I’m too young yet.” 

He pressed her to him with a force that left her 
helpless. He would show her haughty mother who^ 
was the master. With his face pressed against hers,, 
he talked, expostulated, begged, threatened to kilil 
himself, kissing her again and again, until she gave- 
in. She would do anything, everything he asked of 
her, but he must give her twenty-four hours to wie 
over her mother. 

“If you fail?” 

“Then, I will go with you.” 

“You promise.” 

“Yes.” 

“Julie! Your mother will influence you: against 
me!” 

“No one can do that.” 


28 


VAL SINESTRA 


■^Tou are mine; I will not give you up.” He 
swore an oath, which made her shudder. With a 
quiver of terrible joy, she put her arms around his 
neck. Her lips sought his. 

8 

Every afternoon, Floyd Garrison occupied a deep 
chair in the window of his club on upper Fifth Ave¬ 
nue—a privilege inherited by the law of precedence, 
from his father and grandfather. His great-grand¬ 
father was one of the founders of the original club¬ 
house which was downtown—an old building with 
raftered ceilings, wooden models of ships, and a 
portrait of Peter with the game leg. 

In time the ‘‘youngsters” of 1850 moved uptown, 
refurnished in plush, and became very exclusive. 
They kept people out for lack of pedigree, or differ¬ 
ence of religious conviction. 

A young scion of the new-rich said enviously to 
Floyd: 

“I spend much more on my tailor than you do; 
you can afford to wear your old clothes.” 

Floyd smiled. He took In the young man—a 
fighting figure, physically strong, eager, on the alert, 
with gambler’s eyes. 

^‘You’ve never had to sweat blood for money.” 

The expression was coarse, but It threw a mental 
picture. 

•“No, I’ve never ‘sweated blood* for a living.” 


VAL SINESTRA 


29 


didn’t say a living, I said money. Any idiot 
can make a living. A man must have money and 
lots of it to be anybody; it’s a hot game.” 

He wiped his forehead. 

Floyd wondered if money could buy his armchair 
in the club-window. He was sure it couldn’t, but he 
was a gentlemanly young fellow; he wouldn’t hurt 
the man’s feelings. Destiny had been more than 
kind to him. He wasn’t grateful; he took life’s 
favors as a matter of course. In fact, he never gave 
it any thought. When his father died, sorrow 
blunted the keen edge of existence; now after a year 
he was waking up. His heart’s desire was Julie 
Gonzola. He had no fear; it was the eve of fulfill¬ 
ment. 

Sitting there in the club-window, idly watching the 
traffic, he saw the Gonzola car. Julie was inside 
with Martin. They stopped at the entrance. Martin 
sprang out; Floyd waited for him with a pleasant 
touch of expectancy. Now there would be a long 
talk about Julie. 

He came swinging in, his dark face quivering with 
excitement. Floyd didn’t take Martin seriously; his 
unpleasant emotional nature gave his actions a 
touch of exaggeration, which repelled Floyd, with 
his calm, undisturbed nature. 

“Well, why all this excitement? What’s hap¬ 
pened now?” 

He spoke laughingly. Martin was always get¬ 
ting into some transient mix-up. 


30 


VAL SINESTRA 


“I may as well tell you, you’ll have to know it. 
IVe asked Julie to marry me.” 

Floyd was on his feet, hurt, angry; Martin had 
listened hours to what he called “love ravings” 
about Julie, knowing he was waiting only for his 
year of mourning to expire. It was treachery. They 
faced each other—Martin had an air of triumph, 
but he turned away from Floyd’s accusing eyes. 

“I’ve given her twenty-four hours to prepare her 
mother.” 

“She’ll not consent.” 

“Oh, won’t she? I know the way to make her.” 
Then he walked away. 


9 

Julie crouched in the corner of the car, her dark 
pupils contracting, dilating; she was going home to 
prepare her mother. The contempt in that letter 
she had written to Martin was awful, but she had 
promised and she braced herself for the fight. She 
was used to battles, bitter, uncompromising; used 
to the struggle of antagonistic spirits; but she had 
always been kept out of all that agony, pampered, 
spoilt, worshipped by her mother. Indulged by her 
grandfather—and now she must fight them both, 
and she would. If they stood out against Martin, 
she would keep her word and go away with him; 
this was her determination. She stepped out of the 
car and found her mother waiting for her In the 


VAL SINESTRA 


31 


hall; she knew what was coming. Mrs. Gonzola led 
the way upstairs to her bedroom—^watched Julie 
take off her hat and coat, and smooth down her 
hair. 

“How long have you been meeting this man 
without my knowledge ?” 

“You mean Martin?” 

“Yes.” 

“Since you forbade him the house.” 

“This is the first time in your life that you have 
openly disobeyed me. Why did you do it?” 

“I love him, Mother, and he loves me, and I am 
going to marry him.” She had rehearsed It In the 
car. 

Mrs Gonzola Implored her not to marry that 
“ruffian” who had intrigued to get her affection. 
No man of honor would have acted like that. He 
was not the man for her—she was too young to 
realize it—she would hate him in the end. She 
begged, entreated her to wait a year. Julie burst 
into convulsed sobs. 

“He won’t wait. Mother—I’ve been through all 
that with him. Mother! Mother! Don’t stop it, 
don’t, I must marry him! I mustP* 

Mrs. Gonzola gave a terrible cry. 

“What do you mean—tell me! Why must you 
marry him ? Why ?” 

“Because! because!—^he says he’ll kill me If I 
don’t.” 

Then Mrs. Gonzola warned her of the anger of 


32 


VAL SINESTRA 


Father Cabello, who would never marry her to an 
atheist, a heretic—warned her of her grandfather’s 
curses (and the old Jew could curse); she heard 
him again, as he stood over her on the day of her 
marriage, pouring out his anger. His curses had 
come true in her wretched life, and this disobedient 
child—she was suffering as he had suffered that day 
—but now the old man was her only hope; Julie 
worshipped him. She threatened her with his anger, 
the wrath of the great Jewish God who does not 
forgive, who would bring down punishment upon 
her and her children’s children. 

The girl lay flat on the ground, quivering with 
horror, fear—then she became quite cold and stiff, 
and fell into a cataleptic trance, which lasted an 
hour. Mrs. Gonzola undressed her, put her into 
bed, and lay beside her, holding her close. The girl 
gradually grew warm, and smiled at her mother. 
The spasm of obstinacy over, she was again the sub¬ 
missive child. She would sacrifice herself and 
Martin, it was her duty; she became calm, almost 
cheerful, as was usual after those spells. 

She wanted her mother to dress her as she did 
when she was a child. Mrs. Gonzola was happy; 
her life was bound up in this girl. 

“You look so beautiful, Julie; go and show grand¬ 
father.” 

Mrs. Gonzola stood at the bottom of the stairs 
till Julie went in where Joseph Abravanel sat read¬ 
ing, unconscious of the tragedy which had been 


VAL SINESTRA 


33 


enacted below. He blessed her, called her a good 
child, the hope of his life. Then she and her mother 
dined in the big room with its dark Spanish tapestry 
and gold plate; it was a festive occasion. Mrs. Gon- 
zola praised Floyd and his devotion to the memory 
of his father. 

“You always liked him best as a child, didn’t you, 
Julie?” 

“No, Mother—I—I liked them both —Then 
the fear came again of Martin I 

“He will kill me. Mother. I’m afraid of him, 
afraid.” 

“Julie, I have no strength to fight for you. Marry 
Floyd; he is a simple honest boy. He has always 
loved you.” 

To her mother’s great amazement Julie answered 
in slow deliberate tones— 

“That will be the only way to save myself—^but 
it must be at once. I mustn’t have time to think 
about it—or I couldn’t do it.” 

10 

Floyd went home early that afternoon, stopping 
before the little gate. He had taken great pains 
with his garden. The lawn was velvety smooth; 
beds of flowers were banked up against the porch; 
geraniums bloomed in boxes at the windows. The 
polished brass knocker, the soft white curtain, gave 
the little house an atmosphere of purity, cleanliness. 


34 


FAL SINESTRA 


Passers stopped to admire it; they felt that “nice’’ 
people lived there. 

Floyd shook off a sick feeling; anger nauseated 
him. The knocker gave out a musical call. The 
door was opened by a bright little Japanese boy—- 
the old servants had gradually left during the 
lonely year of mourning. There was nothing 
changed in the house—the wood fire lit, the candles 
on the table set for two; he saw his father at 
the head of it. After dinner the boy brought his 
slippers and velvet house jacket. He stretched him¬ 
self in a big chair and lit his pipe. He loved his 
pipe—that was the Knickerbocker strain in him; he 
smoked it with reverence as the old Dutchmen did— 
in the days when pipes were longer and tobacco bet¬ 
ter. He loved to sit before the wood fire, and listen 
to its hissing, crackling, singing; he thought of his 
mother’s ancestors, those sturdy Pioneers in their 
cabins, piling on the logs, bolting their iron shutters 
against the howling wolves outside, who devoured 
the bodies and cracked the bones of men. The 
Puritans are gone, but the wolves are still with us; 
they eat the soul and sow wolf seed. 

Then he thought how his father had planned his 
life for him, just as he had laid out his garden. It 
had not occurred to him that his son’s life must be 
different from his own. His father’s time was far 
away. Today things change with a flash—there is 
no more “slow development”—a fire!—a storm, 
lightning, ruins! He was a fool to be so sure of 


VAL SINESTRA 


35 


Julie; she had been very sympathetic in his year of 
mourning. He took it for love—Martin, that vul¬ 
garian, with his family history I He never had the 
slightest suspicion of what was going on between 
them. He’d been a blind fool. 

He jumped to his feet; the clock struck ten. 
Twenty-four hours to prepare her mother. Why 
hadn’t she said “No” at once and put an end to it? 
She couldn’t want to marry him; it was unthinkable, 
but he never knew quite what she did think. When 
he said, “A penny for your thoughts,” she grew very 
serious. 

“My thoughts are only for myself.” 

He became impatient. Why make the thing so 
complicated? It was simple enough; they both 
wanted her and they’d have to fight for her as they 
did as boys. They never knew which of them she 
liked. 

The telephone rang. He took up the receiver. 
It was Mrs. Gonzola’s voice. 

“Is it you, Floyd?” 

“Yes.” 

“Could you come over for a few moments? It’s 
late, but—” 

“I’ll come at once.” 

He stood before the mirror in the hall. It reflected 
a young man, clean shaven, straight brows, eyes deep 
blue, almost black, the mouth set with suppressed 
pain; that was all the image gave out—nothing of 
the unsounded depths. The narcotic of ease and in- 


36 VAL SINESTRA 

herited aloofness had kept the lion of character 
sleeping. 

Passing the Dillon house, Floyd noticed vaguely 
a sign “For Sale.” Tom Dillon had inherited a 
large fortune which his father made in whiskey; he 
had boasted he would drink up the well-stocked cel¬ 
lar before he got rid of the house. It was illum¬ 
inated tonight; he heard music and loud laughter; 
Tom was on the job. 

In the parlor of the Gonzola mansion the butler 
pressed a button which lit up the unaccountable glass 
prisms of the electrified fixture; it was a familiar 
room. As a boy, its grandeur had awed him; when 
he grew older, he thought it old-fashioned, but he 
didn’t want to see it changed. He knew little of 
the other part of the house, excepting the dining¬ 
room which was in old leather, heavy, dark. He 
had always spoken with superiority of the “charm¬ 
ing Spanish atmosphere” of the room. Tonight it 
struck him differently. “What an ignorant fool he 
was.” A man who mentally kicks himself for being 
all kinds of a fool is often awakening to wisdom. 

The floor was parquet, smooth and polished. 
There were Oriental rugs and deep armchairs, up¬ 
holstered in Turkish, and a broad divan with won¬ 
derful silk rugs thrown over it. Fur animals lay 
about with enormous heads and glassy eyes. The 
window hangings were of costly lace. He had often 
looked at that bronze figure in a corner; tonight it 
spoke to him. It was the Moses of Michael Angelo 


VAL SINESTRA 


37 


—a noble head with a rippling, flowing beard. The 
walls were covered with family portraits in gilt 
frames, turning old gold with age. He had said 
with authority “they are Van Dykes.” Now he 
noticed signed names unknown to him, probably 
young foreign artists. He stood before a portrait 
of Pedro Gonzola, Julie’s grandfather, painted in 
Amsterdam, after a ball costume. A very hand¬ 
some young cavalier in black velvet with white lace 
falling over his long, tapering fingers—he thought 
of Martin’s coarse hands; no, the room was not 
Spanish. 

Mrs. Gonzola came in; she, too, took on a new 
significance; a woman of fifty, small, sinuous, with 
pale eyelids, forehead, lips; the process of Time had 
almost washed out the human face which had been, 
even at its best, but a soft water-color. 

Tonight Floyd seemed to see within that white 
Image. Past struggles, like smothered flames, 
flashed up again momentarily. Her English was 
perfect—so academic it sounded foreign; born in 
New York, taught by professors, she spoke like one. 
She had tried to bring Julie up that way, but 
changed conditions were too strong for her. 

“Floyd, I am in a terrible dilemma. Martin has 
asked Julie to marry him.” 

“Yes, I know.” 

She tried to draw away her hands, but Floyd held 
them fast. 

“Your decision means everything to me.” Floyd 


38 


VAL SINESTRA 


put his arm around her; he had known her all his 
life. She clung to him; there were tears in her voice, 
but her eyes were dry. 

“Julie told you of our ancestry?” 

“Yes.” 

“Does it make any difference?” 

“Why should it?” 

An evasive answer. Why didn’t he make it 
simple, and say “No”? 

“Some people are prejudiced, but you have no 
family ties, and are not religious. I don’t want 
Julie to marry Martin, he’s vulgar; they are peas¬ 
ants, common cattle drivers; his grandfather was a 
waiter—I can’t think of it, it’s too horrible I” 

Floyd tried to be fair. 

“But if Julie likes him better—” 

“She does not; I’m sure of it. She is very im¬ 
pressionable. Martin has a kind of brute force; you 
know him. He’ll talk her into it. It will be a ter¬ 
rible misfortune for her; it will ruin her life! I 
must make it impossible; I must I” 

Floyd was speechless with excitement. She had 
her arms around him, clinging to him. 

“Julie Is a strange girl, at the mercy of inherited 
instincts—she will be safe with you.” 

Why did she say that? What was wrong with 
Julie? Floyd began to take Julie’s part against her 
mother. 

“Mrs. Gonzola, be calm, I beg of you. You know 
I have wanted Julie all my life; you know I want 


VAL SINESTRA 39 

her now. If she loves Martin better, what—^what 
—can I do?’’ 

“No, no, she will tell you herself,” Mrs. Gonzola 
glided out of the room. Floyd wiped his forehead. 
What did It all mean? Why was she so afraid of 
Martin? What was he doing there, anyhow? 
Martin had been open with him, now he was con¬ 
spiring with her mother. No, he would do noth¬ 
ing underhand. He would give Martin a chance 
to get his answer as agreed. Julie must be free 
to choose. 

She stood In the doorway. He wanted to tell her 
what was in his mind, but she didn’t give him time. 
She came straight to him, put her arms around his 
neck; her soft body Intoxicated him. His heart’s 
desire realized—^Julie his wife; he couldn’t let her 
go, he kissed her again and again. She laughed and 
said In her soft, sensuous voice: 

“Oh, oh, don’t eat me.” 

“It’s forever, Julie, forever?” 

He stammered out the words. He was terribly 
excited, poor lad. She grew very serious. 

“Yes—It Is forever.” Then she cried and he 
tried to comfort her. 

“I’ve had a great deal of excitement today. Go 
now.” 

She let him kiss her again. He went unsteadily 
like a soberly Inclined man who had rushed violently 
into an orgy of liquor. It was dawn when he slipped 
quietly out of his house and dropped a letter to 


40 


VAL SINESTRA 


Martin into the post-box, he had written everything, 
just how it happened. 

The only thing that clouds my indescribable happiness is the thought 
that you may resent my not giving you your chance, but it was out of 
my hands. When Mrs. Gonzola called me tonight, I had no idea of what 
was awaiting me. My happiness came to me. I cannot let it go. 

He expected no answer to his letter. It came by 
return mail: 

There is nothing to be angry about; I would have done the same in 
your place. I would take her away from you now, if it were possible, 
but—don’t be uneasy, she doesn’t care enough for me. I don’t think 
she’s insane about you, but you are the safer proposition. You won’t see 
me for some time. 

Martin had a way of disappearing when things 
went against him. Floyd read the letter once more. 
“The safer proposition.” Of course, she would be 
safe with him; he was too happy to let the signifi¬ 
cance of a word worry him. He slowly tore the let¬ 
ter in little pieces, and said nothing to Julie about it. 

The next evening, he went over to dine with the 
Gonzolas. Mrs. Gonzola had asked him quietly not 
to come during the day. 

“Julie needs time to calm down.” 

“Calm down?” laughed Floyd. “It’s too early 
for that.” 

“She Is quite exhausted. She must get used to the 
idea.” 

It was not exhausting to him to get used to hap¬ 
piness. It came natural to think of Julie as “my 


VAL SINESTRA 


41 


dear wife.” He saw many, many years ahead. As 
they grew old they would get fonder of each other, 
like his mother and father. A pang shot through 
him; if they were alive now! He had not “lived” 
like other men; he had waited for the one woman. 
The close contact was intoxicating, leaving him in¬ 
capable of logical reasoning. He waited impatiently 
for the evening. 

Julie stood under the big chandelier; her soft 
white gown with a touch of red velvet seemed a part 
of her flexible body; a filet of it was drawn over her 
forehead. Her full red lips were a splash of color 
in her pale face. She came quite naturally to him; 
Floyd’s heart beat furiously. Mrs. Gonzola looked 
regal in black lace, relieved by a huge diamond 
brooch set in old silver. She approved of Floyd; he 
was a gentleman. 

“My father lives with us. Julie has probably told 
you; I want her to take you up to see him. Don’t 
speak of your engagement yet. Julie will break it to 
him gradually, but I want him to know you, and I 
am sure he will love you as we do.” 

How gracious she was; it was like the condescen¬ 
sion of a Queen. 

“Break it to him,” as if it were bad news. Floyd 
felt uncomfortable. 

Julie led the way up to the fourth floor. They 
entered a very large room with mullion windows; 
one, at the extreme end, of yellow glass. He was 
conscious of warmth, a glory of golden sunlight, the 


42 


VAL SINESTRA 


odor of a hothouse, many palms. Under a tropical 
tree with enormous leaves spread out like an um¬ 
brella sat a man with a black silk skull cap on his 
head. He was absorbed in his book. He did not raise 
his eyes. Floyd at a first glance caught the impres¬ 
sion of age, because of a long thick white beard, fall¬ 
ing in waves, turning up at the edges in curls, which 
reminded him of Michael Angelo’s Moses, but this 
statue lived. Julie spoke very respectfully. She 
seemed in awe of him. 

“Grandfather, I’ve brought Floyd Garrison to see 
you.” 

He arose and came toward Floyd. He wore a 
long black silk coat reaching to his ankles, with vel¬ 
vet collar, cuffs, and slippers. His feet were very 
small, his hands like a woman’s; the voice which 
came from that frail body was clear, penetrating. 

“My name is Joseph Abravanel.” 

His eyes were young. Floyd felt himself being 
measured and weighed, but that didn’t disturb him; 
he had no secrets. 

“I know all about you, Floyd. I’ve watched you 
grow up. That little snowball fight with Martin 
twelve years ago this winter was fine. You were 
small; but you buried him.” He laughed like a boy. 
Floyd sat down beside him, listening intensely; he 
didn’t want to lose a word. Julie flittered about 
the room, watching them. 

“I like you, Floyd; you’re a good fighter.” 

“Oh, no,” laughed Floyd, “I’m a pacifist.” 


VAL SINESTRA 


43: 


The old man shook his head. 

“Wait, you haven’t found yourself yet. We Jews, 
are fighters, although the world says we are not. 
We’ve been fighting for thousands of years.” 

Then he spoke of the possibilities of America, 
joining the War. 

“It will come; we will be forced into it. We Jews 
will get the worst of it as usual, but that’s good for 
us; the will to live becomes stronger.” 

He continually repeated “we Jews” as if to im¬ 
press the fact of his race upon Floyd. 

“The American aliens will find relatives in every 
European field of battle; it will be terrible, like the 
Civil War, brother against brother.” 

Floyd had never thought of it that way. 

“The Jews are like an old tree—its branches 
spread all over the world; it roots are in the Bible. 
The Arian education is Greek, opposite to that of 
the Hebrew. The Greeks worshipped form, beauty; 
its idols were in stone. The Hebrews rejected that;, 
they based their religion on the ‘Word.’ You see? 
the body, the Soul; the Image Greek, the Soul 
Hebrew.” 

After that, Floyd found his way often to the 
fourth floor. He heard many things foreign to his 
way of thinking, but of deep interest to him. 

“Now,” said Floyd laughingly one evening, “IVe 
made myself popular with all the family.” 

“No,” answered Julie, “there is one more, Father 
Cabello.” 


44 VAL SINESTRA 

11 

Father Cabello was an indispensable part of the 
Gonzola family, from the Celtic help in the kitchen, 
to the aristocratic old man on the top floor, whose 
guest he was on Friday evenings, when he shared a 
simple meal of vegetables and fruit, washed down 
with a glass of delicious Palestinian wine; after that, 
a game of chess, and a long theological discussion 
which lasted many a time until the small hours. The 
two men, of the same origin but of different creeds, 
understood each other perfectly. When it came to 
a burning question, such as the sincerity of Paul— 
whether his hatred of the High Priests of Judea 
had not Instigated him to dethrone them, by putting 
another in their place, one he had never seen, or 
whether It was an inspiration, “a voice out of the 
wilderness”—then Joseph AbravanePs eyes took on 
a fiery gleam. Father Cabello, seeing the danger 
signal, would evade the question by a witty remark, 
-ending with a laugh. Julie gave Floyd a hint. He 
invited the good Father to lunch with him at the 
dub. 

He sat In the window watching the priest shaking 
hands with one and the other—a man of Church and 
World, known to rich and poor, and generally be¬ 
loved. Floyd had a feeling of embarrassment, but 
Father Cabello put him at once in smooth waters 
by a remark about the “exclusive policy” of the 
dub. 


VAL SINESTRA 


45 


“Yes/* answered Floyd. “This distinction against 
aliens is very reactionary.” He forgot he was on 
the membership committee before he was engaged; 
then he ventured to say: 

“I—I am very glad you do not oppose my mar¬ 
riage with Julie.” 

“Why should I?” 

He knew Floyd was not a Catholic; why did he 
make him emphasize that? 

“I was prepared for your opposition on account 
of my religion.’* 

The priest smiled. 

“The man who fights the inevitable destroys no 
one but himself. I have had one great battle in that 
family; I don’t want a second—if—it can be 
avoided. When Julie was born, her mother and I 
together fought and conquered Joseph Abravanel; 
a fine fellow, deeply learned. In the great days of 
the Church in Spain, he would have been a distin¬ 
guished Cardinal.” The priest puffed regretfully at 
his cigar. “His ancestors were foolishly fanatic; 
they chose the evil of eniigration to the glory of 
power and the Pope.” 

Floyd answered eagerly. 

It was a question of principle; they should be ad¬ 
mired, respected, for such noble self-sacrificc. 

The priest liked the boy; there was no complica¬ 
tion to fight in him. 

“This marriage was a question of you and one 
other. I chose you.” 


46 


VAL SINESTRA 


Floyd’s face grew hot. It had all been arranged 
between the mother and the priest. 

“Then you considered me the lesser of two evils?” 

The priest smiled again. 

“You are not an evil, you are a concession; we 
make them, if they do not bring us future harm; the 
children will be ours, but don’t let it worry you 
now.” 

“Pedro Gonzola’s marriage with a Jewess was 
also a concession. Why did you allow that?^* 

“This boy is no fool,” thought the priest; he took 
pains to answer the question. 

“We were mistaken in our calculations, we are 
sometimes; we remained passive because we were 
sure Joseph Abravanel would fight it with all his 
might; and he did. But another power mightier 
than he and the Church together won out; the 
strongest combination In the world—^youth and love. 
Ruth was his only child, she threatened to leave him, 
he worshipped her, he had to give In, but he went 
to live with the young couple, with a firm resolve to 
counteract our influence. The inevitable happened; 
she came to us for consolation. Julie was born in 
the church.” 

They were silent. The priest lived again that in¬ 
teresting conflict. The old man had fought well, he 
was wonderful with his unanswerable arguments, but 
reason went down under the great emotional rising 
of the soul—the need of forgiveness. 

Floyd’s voice brought him back. 


VAL SINESTRA 


47 


“Why did he remain in his daughter’s house?” 

“Because with the obstinate patience of his race> 
he had hopes of Julie’s children.” Then he bent 
nearer, lowering his voice. “There is something 
else you should know. From the day Julie was bap¬ 
tized, Joseph Abravanel has never seen or spoken 
to his daughter.” 

The atmosphere of tragedy folded itself about 
Floyd; he felt the clashing of spiritual powers, with¬ 
in the walls of that outwardly peaceful home, now 
creeping like slow fire into his life. 

12 

Near Floyd’s house, there was a small stone 
chapel ornamented with dark wooden beams; it had 
been built by Mr. Garrison and Mr. Steele. They 
brought over their pastor from Scotland, a rugged* 
sincere man. 

Floyd still grew chilly, when he thought of the 
bare whitewashed walls, the stone floor, the hard 
wooden benches. No choir, no organ, no stained 
glass windows. The pastor generally took his text 
from one of those Hebrew “calamity howlers,” and 
hurled curses at the heads of his unfortunate 
parishioners. He was a man of mild disposition, but 
he thought it was his duty to snatch them from the 
worship of Mammon. The “Idolaters” would listen 
meekly, rise, sing a hymn, and file out penitently, ta 
pursue on week days, their ungodly practices. 


48 


VAL SINESTRA 


In course of time the pastor went to heaven, his 
congregation the other way; Martin said it might 
be the reverse. Other pastors modified their curses 
or ceased to hurl them; the times demanded bless¬ 
ings, and paid for them. The congregation grew 
rich and moved uptown. Floyd kept his pew out of 
respect for his parents. 

He told the pastor, a sensible man from the West 
with a large growing family, of his coming mar¬ 
riage. 

“We are not losing you; we lost you when your 
father died. Of course, you must consider the 
bride’s family; the women generally arrange those 
matters, but I would like to come and see you some¬ 
times. Your children may in course of time think 
differently.” 

He, also, had hopes of the next generation. 

Now Floyd pushed away all unpleasant thoughts; 
his youth demanded happiness. He went up the 
steps of the Gonzola mansion with a light heart, 
humming to himself. The butler ushered him into 
the dimly lighted parlor. He waited, but Julie did 
not come. He heard voices above. He was one of 
the family now by right of knowing all its secrets. 
He found Julie crouched at the bottom of the upper 
stairs; at the door of the old man’s room was Mrs. 
Gonzola on her knees. Floyd tried to question Julie, 
but she silenced him with an imperative gesture. 

The voices of Father Cabello and Joseph Abra- 
vanel, penetrating the closed door, rang throughout 


VAL SINESTRA 


49 


the house. Floyd heard his name; it was a question 
of his marriage with Julie, of the ceremony, and 
again, those future generations. He heard the deep 
tones of the priest—threatening, persuasive; the 
other voice trembling, feeble, rising in a despairing 
shriek, dying away in sobs. It was terrible; every 
word seemed to strike that prostrate figure at the 
door like a whip. Floyd thought of the rack. The 
priest came out wiping his forehead, he lifted the 
stricken woman; the Church had won again. 

They were married quietly at home, the bride in 
old lace and priceless family jewels, a vision of Ori¬ 
ental beauty. Martin’s words came back to Floyd. 
“To me she is not a modern girl, she is the Shula- 
mite maiden who rises from her couch at night and 
goes out to seek her lover.” 

Floyd wanted to bring his wife to the house 
where he was born; Julie gladly consented. He had 
been so dear, giving in to everybody, for the sake of 
peace. At the door of his home, Floyd took Julie 
up in his arms and carried her over the threshold as 
his fathers had done before him. 

13 

The young couple were called home from a brief 
trip, by the sudden death of Joseph Abravanel. 

Julie’s grief was terrible. She stood by the plain 
deal coffin where he lay in his shroud, looking long 
at the marble face. Floyd felt her suffering, but he 


50 


VAL SINESTRA 


was powerless to console her. He wondered why 
Mrs. Gonzola kept her room; she surely would want 
to say good-bye to her father. He turned; she was 
there; she entered slowly, as if in fear. Julie made 
a quick step forward. 

The voice that came from Mrs. Gonzola’s white 
lips was red with the blood of her race. 

“I must see him.” 

“You dare not.” 

“Have pity on me.” 

“I promised him to keep you away.” 

“He will not know.” 

“He will know, he must rest in peace.” 

They were not mother and daughter; they were 
enemies. 

Mrs. Gonzola turned and went downstairs in 
silence. She died a few days later without breaking 
that silence. 

Joseph Abravanel had given away what little 
he possessed during his life-time; to Julie he left a 
small Hebrew prayer-book, worn with age. Mrs. 
Gonzola’s will was complicated. She had given gen¬ 
erously to the Church for years. Julie was to have 
the house and contents and the income of what was 
left, the capital going to the grandchildren on con¬ 
dition of their fidelity to the Church; otherwise it 
went to support a theological seminary in Rome. 

They were standing together in the parlor. The 
room was icy; her face, pinched, worn. 


VAL SINESTRA 51 

“I am going to sell the house and everything in 
it.” 

“WhatI Sell your family portraits?” 

“I’ve had enough of them, persecuting me with 
their angry faces. They despise me; I feel it. I 
have felt it all my life; as a child I saw them in my 
dreams coming out of their frames threatening me I 
I am done with them, done with them 1” She broke 
into convulsive sobs. She took him by the hand, 
and led him around the room, stopping before each 
one of her childhood’s inquisitors. 

“Do you want to live with them all your life?” 

“No, I certainly do not—^but—” 

“I’ll have them packed up and sent back to the 
family in Europe who will hang them in their picture 
galleries. We have none....” 

The sight of Julie in lustreless black and a long 
crepe veil made Floyd shudder; it was awful. Black 
obscured her beauty, she spoke in low tones, went 
around on tip-toe. There was the silence of death 
in his house. 

“I can’t stand this, Julie. We’re living as in a 
cemetery; it’s getting on my nerves. How long is it 
going to last?” 

“One year.” 

Floyd didn’t like to appear heartless, but he had 
already learnt to use a little diplomacy with his wife. 

“Do you realize how unbecoming black is to 
you?” 

She looked at him, startled. 


52 


VAL SINESTRA 


“It is my duty to wear it.” 

“It’s gone out of fashion. Only old people wear 
crepe nowadays; a black band is quite sufficient. 
Why should you parade your grief?” 

She didn’t answer, but the next morning she came 
to breakfast in a “royal” purple tea gown. 

Floyd kissed her eyes, lips, hands; he had his 
sweetheart again. 

Julie smiled at him. She liked to be worshipped. 

“Come, come I I’m hungry. Don’t you want any 
breakfast?” 

“I want nothing but you.” 

The Japanese laid the morning paper on the table 
and discreetly withdrew. Floyd looking over the 
headings, sprang to his feet. 

“War?” 

Julie gave a startled cry. 

“You won’t go, you won’t leave me alone. 

“I must do my duty.” 

He went down to see Colonel Garland. The of¬ 
fice was In a whirl of excitement. The Colonel was 
prancing like an old war horse. Everybody was 
talking at once. It had to come; the President had 
put it off too long; some were for, some against It, 
but the fact was there—the United States had 
thrown her hat into the ring. Floyd’s face was 
flushed, his eyes shining. 

“I’m going to volunteer.” 

The Colonel looked grave. 

“Wait, let the single men go first.” 


VAL SINESTRA 


53 


Floyd couldn’t be held back; every man he knew 
had volunteered. He met Tom Dillon with a little 
flag stuck in his buttonhole, his hat set jauntily on 
the side of his head. 

“I’m going into camp tomorrow.” 

That night there was a scene with Julie; she 
begged, cried, fainted. Dr. McClaren was sent for, 
the diagnosis was—Motherhood. Floyd did not 
volunteer. 

All New York crowded the streets to bid God¬ 
speed to the first regiment sailing for France. “Our 
Boys” with flowers in their caps, flowers stuck in 
their guns marched proudly. The people went mad. 

Floyd, holding Julie tightly, stood on the corner 
of Fifth Avenue. He had a feeling of depression; 
for the first time in his life a wish had been thwarted. 
He looked down at the curly head with its sport-hat 
pressed close to his arm, noticed the glances of ad¬ 
miration. She was worth the sacrifice. Suddenly 
with a well-directed aim, she flung a rose at a pass¬ 
ing soldier. He caught it, pressed it to his lips with 
a long glance backward. 

“That was Martin,” said Julie. 

They walked home in silence. Julie had a head¬ 
ache from the noise and excitement and went to bed 
early. 

Floyd sat up; he tried to think of Julie and the 
future. He couldn’t; the cheers were still in his 
ears, the tramping of feet, the clashing of cymbals. 
He sat there, out of it. Love was cruel.. .. 


54 


VAL SINESTRA 


The boy was christened by Father Cabello, his 
last service to the Gonzola family. He had been 
called to Rome, where honors awaited him, for his 
services to the Church in America. 

“What name are you going to give him?” asked 
the Father. 

Julie, lying in her white bed, answered: 

“His name will be Joseph Abravanel Gonzola 
Garrison.” 

Floyd thought it too high-sounding for modern 
times—an American citizen couldn’t carry it, but 
Julie had her way. 

After Father Cabello’s departure, she went sel¬ 
dom to the Cathedral and gradually ceased alto¬ 
gether. 

“I’ve lived all my life under the tyranny of two 
religions. My boy must be free of that; when he 
is old enough he will choose for himself.” But she 
still read her grandfather’s little Hebrew book at 
night when she couldn’t sleep, or when she awoke 
terrified from the reality of her dreams. She never 
spoke of it to Floyd, and he didn’t like to intrude. 


BOOK II 


‘‘The Present—gray tones of actuality—A moving pictures 
Crowds struggling—Shattered Ideals—Truth in danger.” 






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BOOK II 

1 


M artin STEELE came back to America 
after two years’ absence. He was known 
over there as the “Yankee Devil.” Danger 
seemed to attract him; he rushed through a rain of 
bullets and planted the flag in the face of the enemy. 
He was happy; the straining of nerve and sinew 
helped to quiet an inward restlessness. On landing 
he found a telegram from his mother; she wanted 
him to go up and see “The Museum” before coming 
to Boston. He tore up the telegram with an ugly 
scowl. 

The corner of Broadway and Forty-second 
Street—gigantic waves of humanity passing, moving 
up, down, across—screeching automobiles emitting 
pestilential odors—rapidly changing electric signs— 
the only stagnation was in the air—it weighed on 
his chest, halted his breath. He stood with his 
hands deep in his pockets. There was something 
psychic going on within him; the boys who came 
home brought with them a strange consciousness: 
they had seen miracles. 

He felt the leaden mentality oozing out from the 
crowd, became keenly conscious of the mixture of 
races; those tense, strained faces, looking straight 
57 


58 


VAL SINESTRA 


ahead; the past forgotten; the future—^who cares? 
“We build for today; the next man will build for his 
day.” “The Present” in electric letters of colored 
flames. How am I to borrow or steal for—women 
—for wine. Prohibition?—ha I ha I—who takes 
that seriously; who takes anything seriously?” 

Martin elbowed himself through the crowd; a 
soldier in khaki, people looked after him; a fine 
strong fellow from the prairies, seeing the sight of 
the Great White Way. 

He mopped his forehead, saying to himself, 
“Where shall I go?” 

He stood before the house where he was born, 
read the black and gold sign on the door. 

“The Winthrop Museum. Tuesday, Thursday, 
Saturday (admission free); other days fifty cents.” 
It was Friday. 

The sleepy official handed him a card. Martin 
threw down his fifty cents and entered. There were 
a few stragglers strolling from case to case, mostly 
strangers. A large omnibus, “Seeing New York,” 
waited outside; the man on the box blew the horn. 

“This is the house of the celebrated Winthrop 
family whose ancestors came over in the Mayflower, 
The owners have generously donated their historical 
relics to the city; ten minutes allowed for inspec¬ 
tion.” 

He looked at the old furniture, falling to pieces 
from want of repair; some were really family relics, 
but the parading of them—“who cares for other 


VAL SINESTRA 


59 


people’s old sticks” ? The caretaker was putting on 
his hat to go when Martin spoke to him. 

“I’m Mr. Steele. I’m going to close up this dug- 
out.” He put ten dollars in the man’s hand. With 
one strong wrench he tore down the sign, locked the 
door, and put the key in his pocket. 

He stopped before the Garrison home; it was lit 
up inside. He opened the gate, shut it with a sharp 
click, and went up toward Fifth Avenue. The row 
of small brick houses were in a sorry plight. On 
Maud Ailsworth’s window there was a sign, “Table. 
Board”; on the Gonzola mansion, “For Sale.’” 
“The mother and grandfather dead, Julie married.’^ 
Then he bought the biggest basket of red roses he 
could find, and followed on the heels of the mes¬ 
senger. 

Floyd was in the nursery, revelling in the beauty^ 
of mother and child—a wonderful Murillo picture,. 
Julie laughed at his caressing epithets, “Two angels, 
to take care of”—etc., etc., and all the rest a mam 
like Floyd would naturally say to the young mother- 
of his child. She went to dinner leaning on his arm.. 
Julie was one of the rare women who become beau¬ 
tiful with motherhood; from the first moment of its 
consciousness, she was a changed being. The grief 
and horror of her double misfortune vanished; her 
eyes became larger, more brilliant. The dead white 
of her skin changed into a soft pink; the rippling 
hair shone, getting more and more rebeSious, escap¬ 
ing in soft curls about her face. 


d60 VAL SINESTRA 

She gave a cry of pleasure at the roses on the 
table. 

“Oh! how gorgeous! Floyd, you mustn’t spoil 
me like this.” 

“I didn’t send them.” 

“You didn’t?” 

^‘No, my word of honor.” 

‘‘Then who? I can’t think of anyone, unless— 

“Who?” 

She fastened a rose in her dress, forgetting to 
answer. 

The table was faultlessly set with fine damask. 
The heavy cut glass sparkled in the candle light. A 
pine wood fire threw a soft glimmer over the room; 
there was no other light. Floyd felt a sense of 
aesthetic satisfaction. He hated the big flats of the 
West Side with their electric illumination; he was 
glad he didn’t have to live in them. The bell rang. 

“Who Can that be at this hour?” 

“You needn’t announce me. I’ll go right in.” 

“Martini” 

Julie was on her feet looking for a way of escape. 
Floyd put her back in her seat. 

“Stay where you are.” 

Floyd’s hand went out to meet Martin’s; he’d 
come back from the front, and they had known each 
other all their lives. 

“I landed today. I feel like a stranger in a 
foreign land. Will you let me have a bite with 
you?” 


VAL SINESTRA 


61 


He hadn’t changed; heavily tanned; a little more 
muscular; a little louder. He grasped Julie’s hand, 
and held it fast. There was a slight heaving under 
the red rose; her cheeks had lost their color. He 
absorbed everything with those eyes of his. She felt 
the loose gown hanging from her shoulders, and 
drew it around her full bosom. He turned to Floyd, 
with a laughing question in his eyes. Floyd laughed 
back; he couldn’t help feeling a sense of triumph. 

Martin was very entertaining, told amusing 
stories in French; there was something pathetic in 
his efforts to please. Julie took a childish delight in 
his medals. Floyd’s face clouded over; Martin took 
them from her hand. 

“They mean nothing to me.” 

“You should be proud of them,” insisted Julie. 
“They are a reward for bravery. You were brave. 
We read about you.” 

“I wouldn’t give the others the satisfaction of 
thinking me a coward.” 

“But you were afraid at first; it’s only natural.” 

He turned and looked straight at her. 

“No. What is there in life for me? It takes 
more courage to go on living.” 

There was a long pause; Julie arose, said “good¬ 
night.” Floyd went with her to the stairs, kissed 
her; Martin’s eyes followed them. Then Floyd 
threw himself into the big chair by the fire, for¬ 
getting everything but the dear woman, the dear; 
child. 


62 


VAL SINESTRA 

Martin sat puffing at his pipe; it was foul. Julie 
couldn’t bear a pipe. Floyd had given up his 
then he shut the door carefully, lit his pipe laugh¬ 
ingly, saying something about a bad example. 
He was eager for more stories of war, carnage, 
murder. 

“A wonderful experience. I envy you.” 

“Why didn’t you go?” 

“I couldn’t leave Julie in her condition.” 

There was a silence; then Martin spoke in a hard 
voice which conveyed repression. 

“Your experience has been more wonderful than 
mine.” 

He threw down his pipe, pacing the room, mut¬ 
tering broken sentences; there was a strange glitter 
in his eyes. He cursed everything, everybody. 

“Patriotism, bah! We punched holes in that lie, 
sitting in our dugout waiting for the death call. 
Love of the soil; bah I I was born next door; an¬ 
other year you also will be driven out. Our children 
won’t even know the spot where their parents lived; 
what does it matter, anyhow? The farmer, bah I 
He values the soil as he does his cow, for what he 
can get out of it; it isn’t his land. He came over, 
bought it, because he couldn’t steal it, mortgaged it, 
misused it. The boys won’t go back to the farm. 
They want money, they’ll get it the next few years. 
The rest of the world will starve—^America will wal¬ 
low in the filthy stuff—not you, nor I—we’re pikers, 
that’s what we are; our fathers thought they left us 


VAL SINESTRA 


63 


rich; I could plunge In, reconstruct, sell out, gamble 
with my money, and make a fortune. What then?” 
He stood glaring at Floyd, a desperate, hopeless 
creature, Martin’s ravings always depressed him; 
Julie’s voice broke the oppressive silence. 

“Floyd, bring Martin up to see the baby.” 

He stood in the doorway like a bashful boy, Floyd 
put the child in his arms; he looked down at the 
little dark head against his arm, bent and kissed 
it, giving Julie a look of lightning rapidity. It 
scorched her. 

Martin became a frequent visitor at the Garri¬ 
sons’, running in often at inopportune moments. 

Julie was sitting over the fire In the dining-room, 
the child asleep In a little pink-lined basket beside 
her. She leaned back; there was a feeling of lassi¬ 
tude, weariness; she had every reason to be happy; 
no woman could ask more; but why that longing 
to get away from her child, her husband, from her¬ 
self? Why did she feel the walls of her life? She 
knew there was something wrong with her; she felt 
too Intensely. Martin! Why had he come back? 
She was happy with Floyd; he was good, gentle, 
kind, so different; but Martini Martin! 

She heard his voice outside, she must get up¬ 
stairs; she went swiftly to the door—too late—he 
was In the room taking her in with those terrible 
eyes. 

“Why did you break In like this? It’s very incon¬ 
siderate. I am not fit to see strangers.” 


64 


VAL SINESTRA 


“Strangers, Julie I” 

She raised her arms above her head, twisting the 
thick ropes of falling hair, trying to fasten them. 
Her shawl fell away, disclosing the corsetless form, 
the open neck. 

Waves of passion rushed through him. 

“Don’t go! Give me one moment more, just 
one I” He caught at her shawl. A terrible shame 
burnt her. She staggered out, slamming the door 
after her. Martin pressed the shawl, warm from 
her body, to his face; the hot tears rolled down. 

He didn’t come again for some time. One day 
Floyd met him at the club. 

“Why don’t we see you at the house? We miss 
you.” 

Martin’s eyes had a look of abstraction. 

“Your home is like a nest just now. There is 
room in it only for two—and the little bird.” It was 
a beautiful thought; but that humor never lasted 
long with him. He said abruptly: 

“I’ve sold my house. They are going to build a 
skyscraper. It will take away your light.” 

Floyd’s face darkened. 

“That won’t drive us out.” 

“Why stay there? You can get a big profit.” 

“I was born there; I want to die there.” 

Martin laughed mockingly. 

“A man who dies in the house where he was born 
should be ticketed and put into a museum.” 


VAL SINESTRA 

2 


65 


The wreckers were at work tearing down the 
Steele house. Floyd, passing, found Martin in over¬ 
alls, his hair, face, eyelashes, white with plaster 
dust, his tongue swinging with the hammer. 

“You obstinate devil, I’ll show; you who is the 
master.” 

The wall was well built, too well; in the old days 
they built for the future. He gave it a blow, an¬ 
other, another; it didn’t yield. He worked himself 
into a purple rage. Blow after blow fell upon the 
unhappy partition; it trembled, the others jumped 
away; it fell. Martin stood triumphantly among 
the ruins. 

Floyd’s eyes grew moist. Was there no feeling 
in the man? Did he realize he had made himself 
homeless? Now he must join the rich tramps, the 
poor tramps, that army of wanderers living here 
awhile, there awhile, places to sleep and eat; luxuri¬ 
ous, tawdry, squalid imitations, according to their 
money value. New York was becoming a homeless 
city. 

He related the incident to Julie. 

“Martin looks seedy, he neglects his appearance,^ 
he’s a forsaken wretch.” 

Julie had a sudden inspiration. 

“I’m going to get him married.” 

Floyd laughed. 

“It takes two for that,” 


66 


VAL SINESTRA 


Julie stood before her mirror; a pleasing picture 
flashed back. A smooth young face—not a trace of 
the physical agony she had been through, of the 
mental agony; her life was running now along 
smooth, conventional lines—a beautiful woman, 
bending forward, studying her expression. Is there 
la tell-tale line? No; the mask fits to the life. 

“May I come In?” 

It was Maud Ailsworth Inylted to dinner to meet 
Martin. Julie was going to see what she could do. 
Maud’s mother had been dead four years; she had 
known her only as an Invalid propped up by pillows, 
with an ice bag on her head. Maud left school early 
to take the housekeeping, which was a sorry job, in 
her hands. Mrs. Ailsworth’s philosophy of living 
was, that good things were cheapest in the end. The 
modest capital left by her husband melted, they sold 
the house, and lived on the money. When Mrs. 
Ailsworth died, Maud had five thousand dollars. 
She took a room on the top floor rear of a fashion¬ 
able hotel, and spent her time looking for a husband. 
She wanted a nice man, she would wait another year; 
and then—there was always Tom Dillon. She 
didn’t have to act with him. He knew she was a 
beggar, she knew he was a rotter; but she wouldn’t 
do it until her last penny was gone. She still had 
hopes of someone better. She was pretty, quick 
with an answer, and much liked by men, but—they 
didn’t marry her. 

“Why?’^ 


VAL SINESTRA 


67 


She asked herself that question many a night, 
after a party, where the men went the limit. There 
jhe stopped; the other girls jumped the boundaries. 
She wondered if that was why she was single at 
twenty-five. Well, she couldn’t; it wasn’t her vir¬ 
tue, it was her misfortune. 

She noticed at a first glance how much prettier 
Julie had become, but she didn’t compliment her. It 
wasn’t her way. 

“You have had a hard time, haven’t you?” 

“Yes, but it’s worth all I suffered.” 

Maud’s nostrils expanded, taking in the subtle 
essence of violet powder. 

“Oh I I smell the baby.” 

She flew to the crib and took the child in her arms. 

“You handle it like a grandmother!” cried Julie. 
“Why don’t you get married?” 

Maud laughed mirthlessly. 

“Why? Because the only man I really want won’t 
ask me; It’s your fault, Julie—one wasn’t enough 
for you.” 

“How can you say that?” 

“What are you going to do with the other?” in¬ 
sisted Maud. 

Julie answered with a touch of seriousness. 

“I am going to get him for you, if I can. Do you 
like him?” 

Maud spoke slowly, weighing her words. 

“Liking Is too neutral for Martin Steele; it Is 
either love or hate; I think I hate him.” She gave 


68 VAL SINESTRA 

a quick glance into the mirror as they went down to 
dinner. 

The men were waiting in the parlor. Martin was 
ill at ease; he felt like a waiter in evening dress. 
Floyd wore it differently; he melted into it. Maud 
as the guest of honor was charming. All laughed 
heartily at her frank admissions, and keen enjoy¬ 
ment of the fruits so long forbidden. 

“WeVe got a free hand. Politically, economi¬ 
cally; the right to work—” 

“You can have it,” interrupted Martin. “I’ll 
give you my share.” 

“But we want more—Moral Equality.” 

“Isn’t that a step backward?” said Floyd. “Until 
now, women were supposed to be morally superior 
to men.” 

“Why should they be? Equal rights is all we 
want. We are no longer going to be ‘cast out’ for 
acting naturally.” 

Martin took up the gauntlet. 

“You mean you want to have children without 
being married?” 

Maud’s eyes shot defiance. 

“Yes, that’s what I mean.” 

“Haven’t you taken that privilege?” 

“I? Not yet, but I don’t know what I may do.” 

It was getting too personal, Julie arose from the 
table. Floyd lingered with Martin. 

“She doesn’t mean a word of all that. She’s a fine 
woman; she’ll make a good wife and mother.” 


VAL SINESTRA 


69 


Martin blew rings of smoke into the air. 

‘‘I’m quite sure she will, but I’m not interested.” 

Maud was curled up in an armchair by the fire, 
one leg under her, the other hanging down; she was 
smoking a cigarette in a gold-mounted amber 
holder. 

Julie put her arm in Floyd’s. 

“Let’s go and say goodnight to baby.” 

Martin smiled at her transparent subterfuge. He 
looked down at Maud; a well-shaped head, correct 
features, eyes curious; the black stuff she used gave 
them the requisite look of the demi-mondaine. The 
glass beads around her neck were cheap; what there 
was of the gown was evidently designed and put to¬ 
gether by herself. Her thin silk stockings were 
going in the seams; he was sure there were holes in 
the feet. He’d like to dress her well. Yes, she was 
a nice girl; he could easily be single with her for six 
months—^but marriage? 

Julie’s laugh rang out upstairs. Maud was coij- 
scious of being checked up. 

“Well, what’s the verdict?” 

“Will you let me say what I think?” 

“Yes, if you let me do the same.” 

“You will say more than you believe, I less.” 

There was something fascinating in the fellow’s 
insolence. 

“Legs, neck, shoulders, bust, perfect; the sym¬ 
metry of thighs and limbs—classic; but you leave 
me cold.” 


70 


VAL SINESTRA 


“Why?** She bent over with a touch of eagerness. 

“Because there is nothing of mystery about you.’* 

“Ha, ha; why should a woman be a mystery?” 

Then came a flash which revealed depths un¬ 
sounded. 

“Because all holy things are mysterious; when a 
woman ceases to be holy to man, she kills love in 
him.” 

Maud wouldn’t argue on those lines. 

“Other men don’t think so.” 

“They do. Have you ever been inside the 
Museum of Art in Central Park?” 

“Oh, yes. I’ve been to the receptions.” 

“Will you come with me to see the pictures and 
statues?” 

“I’ll go anywhere with you.” 

He sat on the arm of her chair. 

“You will find in some of the mutilated Grecian 
goddesses the same length of limbs and lines of 
body; but they are modestly undraped—” 

“Stop. I don’t like that expression; I believe in 
leaving something to the imagination.” 

“A man’s imagination in that respect is a vile 
thing.” 

“I never thought of it that way.” 

“Think of it that way, will you?” 

“Yes.” 

It slipped out; she was sorry at once, but she 
didn’t recall it. 

“When I look at the girl of today, I feel that I 


VAL SINESTRA 


71 


am passing with the rest of the crowd before those 
wonderful marble statues, which belong to everyone, 
to no one” 

She was on her feet now blazing at him. 

“How dare you demand purity in us? Set the 
example; we’ll follow suit. We give what we re¬ 
ceive; no more, no less.” 

She made a rush for the door. He caught her 
two arms. 

“You women I You women! You prate equal¬ 
ity; you’d hate like the devil to have it. You know 
you’ve got the best of us.” Martin’s voice rang 
out; it was always too loud when he was excited. 
“The woman of today is gambling with every chance 
against her; if she wins, she loses; she’ll get every¬ 
thing she wants, even sexual equality; and when she 
has it, she’ll lose the glory of Life for the human 
race. Look at me. I’m the average man, no better, 
no worse; and the most miserable, lonely wretch 
that ever walked in a city overcrowded with beauti¬ 
ful women. I would marry any one of them—high, 
low, rich, poor, if she would give me the love I’m 
craving for. Tell me the truth now: can you love 
anybody but yourself?” 

She tried to extricate herself from his iron grasp, 
his accusing eyes. 

“Don’t, don’t! You hurt me.” 

He released her with a bitter laugh. 

When Julie came in, Maud was hysterical. Mar¬ 
tin must have been saying something awful. 



72 


VAL SINESTRA 


The Japanese announced: 

‘‘Miss Ailsworth’s car.” 

“Oh! Have you a car?” exclaimed Julie. 

“It belongs to Tom Dillon; he wants me to keep 
his chauffeur busy.” She was herself again, saucy, 
reckless, unthinking. 

Martin bent over her, speaking in low tones. 

“I’ll go home with you; we’ll make up on the 
way.” 

She knew what he meant—she’d show him—he 
couldn’t love her for the moment. 

“I don’t want you; a man’s escort is not a guar¬ 
antee of safety.” 

She kissed Julie and swept out, followed by Floyd. 
He stood at the door of the car; there was some¬ 
thing wrong with Maud. He thought he saw tears 
in her eyes. He jumped into the car and went 
home with her. Julie was at the window as they 
drove off. 

“Oh! Floyd’s gone with her. He’s so old fash¬ 
ioned; he hates to see women roaming about alone 
at night; he won’t be long.” 

She pulled down the blinds, put out the lights, 
leaving only the candles and the glow of the fire. 

Martin stood watching her. She began to feel 
uncomfortable. Why didn’t he say something? She 
was afraid of his silence. 

“Maud’s a nice girl, and very popular. I wonder 
why she doesn’t marry.” 

He answered roughly. 


VAL SINESTRA 73 

“I’m not going to marry her; drop that idea, will 
you.” 

He came close to her, leaning against the side¬ 
board. 

“You’re disappointed?” 

“I? Oh, no.” 

“Confess.” He put his hand under her chin, and 
forced her to look at him. “You want to get rid of 
me?” 

“Yes. I do.” 

“Why? Tell me I” 

In the half light, her face was like ivory. Her 
eyes shone back into his. He started, and put his 
hand on her shoulder; what was it he saw there? 
She came closer to him, closer; he dared not move. 
She kissed him again, again, murmuring soft love 
words. Then he broke out, held her as if he would 
never let her go, calling her his beautiful Queen, his 
Oriental Pearl, his Song of Songs. She clung to 
him, her body responding to his; how long?—a 
moment, which goes back centuries, a century which 
is only a moment. He felt her tears on his face, as 
she caressed and kissed him; every drop of blood in 
him answered. 

“I wanted you always. You know it—^you know 
it. I thought the longing would wear away with 
time; my mother said it would. I believed her; but 
she lied to me, lied! It was always there, getting 
more and more unbearable.” 

Martin closed her lips with a long kiss. This 


74 


VAL SINESTRA 


wonderful tempting, seductive creature; he would 
never let her go. 

“I wanted you to marry Maud to save myself. 
When I saw you with her tonight, the pain was un¬ 
bearable. I couldn’t go on—I couldn’t.” Then she 
drew away from him, and went over to the fire, her 
hands clasped together, her face convulsed; the red 
light enveloped her. 

He came to her. She put out her hand to keep 
him back. 

“Now it’s over.” 

“Over?” How little she knew him. 

“This is the end.” 

“No, it is only the beginning. You were mine; I 
never forgot, never. They stole you from me; 
nothing can part us now. Nothing I” 

She was in his arms again. 

“It had to come, Or I should have lost my reason; 
it’s over now. Go, before he comes back.” 

She slipped away from him. He went out. She 
groped toward the door; where was it? She was 
blind; then she fell. 

3 

Martin entered his hotel; it was past twelve. The 
night orgy had commenced. He passed through the 
room thronged with dancers, his coat buttoned up to 
his neck, his soft hat drawn over his eyes; stood a 
moment looking on, a strange silent figure out of 
place in that decorative humanity. 


VAL SINESTRA 


75 


He sat by the open window in his room; the noise 
from below was deadened by space into a soft hum¬ 
ming sound. Waves of icy air enveloped him. 
He was unconscious of cold or heat. In the flash of 
a moment, life had taken on a different aspect; his 
entire being was one great pulsation. Floyd—the 
difficulties before him, the dishonor of it, came 
faintly from a distant perspective, but he thrust it 
fiercely behind him. The woman filled the world 
for him; he lived over and over that moment of 
tearing joy, her face transfigured with passion, her 
lips, her tears, the pressure of her body against his 
—a statue come to life, for him alone. He had been 
tricked out of his happiness by her mother—^but now 
all the powers of Hell couldn’t keep him away from 
her. 

A restless night fixed his resolve. He knew ex¬ 
actly what he was going to do. He dressed more 
slowly than usual, moving about in a kind of hushed 
manner; he was no longer alone; she was there, 
clinging to him. He jumped Into a taxi and drove 
down to Twelfth Street. The shades were lowered 
in the Garrison house. Next door the wreckers had 
been clearing away the debris; there was now a 
large open space where his home had been. The 
Italian foreman came up to him, speaking in his 
pleasant broken English. 

“A good job, eh? Everything gone, clean as a 
whistle. Tomorrow we commence to build.” 

Martin opened the gate of the Garrison house; as 


76 


VAL SINESTRA 


he stood at the door, his hand on the knocker, he 
had a feeling of being mentally unstrung. Crimin¬ 
ologists say when thieves go to commit a crime they 
are sustained by a strong sense of fatality, a fixed 
idea that It must be; they are drawn into the vortex 
of crime by an Irresistible fascination—the lure of 
adventure, the justification of the equality of human 
rights, the spoils, the gambler’s risk. Martin felt 
vaguely all this; a sense of excitement stimulated 
him, like strong liquor. He caught his breath as he 
entered the room he had left the night before. She 
ivas coming to him again; now he would be the first 
to take her in his arms, to hold her until she would 
consent to go with him; he would have to coax, per¬ 
haps to threaten. He set his teeth; he had decided; 
it must be or he would kill himself and her. 

The door opened; he turned with a smile. Floyd 
stood there, very pale. 

“Julie is not well. When I came back last night, 
I found her lying unconscious on the ground. Did 
she complain to you?” 

“No.” 

“The doctor says it’s a serious nervous collapse. 
They have shut me out of the room.” 

“Can I do anything?” 

“No.” 

“Keep me posted, will you?” 

“Yes.” 

He had counted with everything but that— 

He waited, eating himself up with suppressed 


VAL SINESTRA 


77 


fury; grew thin, unbearable in his impatience; he 
would have her; nothing could prevent it but— 
death! 

4 

The telephone rang in Dr. McClaren’s office. 
The doctor was breakfasting, but he didn’t enjoy as 
usual his porridge with cream and heavy black bread 
made by his Scotch housekeeper; his mind was else¬ 
where. He had been up a greater part of the night 
with young Mrs. Garrison, who went off from one 
fainting spell into another; she complained of in¬ 
tense pains in her head. He left her sleeping under 
bromides; she worried him. Dr. McClaren had 
lived forty years in New York; a gigantic man, with 
bushy, iron-gray hair and eyebrows, a noble head,, 
keen, kind eyes. 

His friends had advised him to “take out his 
papers”; he did, and paid his taxes honestly, but 
never voted. He couldn’t understand the political 
rings; he let them fight it out without help from him. 
Born in Edinburgh, he studied medicine at its excel¬ 
lent severe university, went to London to practice, 
starved there five years, then turned his back on an 
“ungrateful country” that refused an able doctor a 
living. 

Coming over to America, he made friends with 
some “natives,” and liked them—nice simple fel¬ 
lows, “they open their hearts to you, like a grab bag 
at a fair; everything in it is yours.” 


78 


VAL SINESTRA 


‘‘Medicine is a paying profession among Ameri¬ 
cans; they go about with boxes of pills in every 
pocket.** 

“Doctor, my wife*s just been through an opera¬ 
tion. She*s nervous, give her something to quiet 
her, will you?’* 

The doctor objected to sedatives when not abso¬ 
lutely necessary, but he found the frail American 
woman had her own chest of quieting drugs. She 
talked of her operation in professional terms, like 
a doctor. He wondered if she knew she could have 
no children. He wouldn’t tell her; it would break 
her heart, poor thing. He soon found out she did 
know, and didn’t break her heart about it. 

With the help of his new friends, who went to 
unbelievable trouble and sacrifice of valuable time 
to show him “the ropes,** he was established in the 
spacious home in Thirty-fourth Street, which he 
eventually bought; it was the only permanent thing 
in his life. His simple Americans became com¬ 
plicated millionaires. The sands of humanity 
shifted from decade to decade. A great city in the 
making left him many a time bare of patients, but 
the winds of immigration blew them in again. The 
tidal wave of Europe’s overflow became a national 
industry—a weird wonderful gigantic machine; they 
put in a crazy combination of human beings, and it 
vomited—^Americans. 

The assistant put his head in the door. 


VAL SINESTRA 79 

“Mr. Garrison seems agitated. He would like 
you to come at once.’* 

The doctor threw down his napkin and jumped 
into his car; the Garrisons were one of the few old 
families left. He was very fond of young Garrison; 
he had brought him into the world; nothing like 
that baby had even been seen before; there was a 
controversy about the name; Mr. Garrison wanted 
James, according to tradition when it had ceased to 
be Jan, but she wouldn’t hear of anything so vulgar; 
she named the child Floyd, after the hero of Mrs. 
Holmes’ last novel. 

“But,” said the doctor, “suppose he should de¬ 
velop into a strong individuality; that name would 
be too weak for him.” 

“He won’t,” said Prudence. “He’ll be like all 
the men of the family, a perfect gentleman.” 

If Floyd’s father had lived, he would never have 
consented to the marriage. Julie was a hysterical 
girl, with a tendency to epilepsy; that was a secret 
in a family of many secrets; she grew out of it, but 
there were always over developed emotional symp¬ 
toms. He was called in one night. She had been 
taken ill at the opera; the music affected her; she 
was quite stiff; he brought her to with difficulty. He 
had a shock when he heard of Floyd’s marriage. 
He thought there was something going on between 
Julie and Martin Steele. The young couple seemed 
to be very happy; she was a passionate mother; such 
mothers don’t make good wives. 


m 


VAL SINESTRA 


He stood looking down thoughtfully at the sick 
woman, tossing from one side of the bed to the 
other. He had assured Floyd it was only a nervous 
attack. The excavating going on in the neighbor¬ 
hood accounted for the chills alternating with fever. 
She was delirious for hours, and after, exhausted, 
lifeless. Floyd wanted to consult another doctor. 

“No, no, not necessary yet; it would frighten the 
patient, but I’ll send for Miss Mary.” 

Floyd was bewildered; Julie was in perfect health 
and high spirits when he left and drove with Maud 
to her hotel. Scarcely an hour had intervened; he 
found her unconscious. What did it mean? 

Julie was not talkative about herself, although 
she drew every thought out of him. Was there any¬ 
thing worrying her? Could any woman have it 
better? He was her constant companion, antici¬ 
pated her every wish; what more could he do? 

He sat brooding, the breakfast before him 
untouched, his paper unopened. Someone was 
fumbling at the knocker outside; he went to the 
door; he had a vague impression of a very small 
person; a clear voice spoke; it was like a bell ring¬ 
ing in his ears. ' 

“Mr. Garrison’s house?” 

“Yes, what can I do for you?” 

“Nothing. I’m going to try to do something for 
you.” She flew up the stairs. 

He was a bit startled, as if a bird had suddenly 
fluttered past him. He followed her, she had al- 


VAL SINESTRA 


8f 


ready thrown ofi her cape, under which was a white 
linen dress. She took an apron and cap from her 
bag, quickly put them on without a mirror; they sat 
at just the proper angles; she was used to dressing^ 
in the dark. Julie was lying across the bed; the 
covering was in knots, the pillows all cavities. The 
girl bent over her, murmuring low sounds like a 
dove cooing. Floyd tried to distinguish the words. 

“You’re very uncomfortable. Yes, I know hovr 
your head aches. Oh, what pretty hair! It’s heavy, 
isn’t it? Let me roll it up for you. How warm 
you are. No wonder.” She flew to the windows, 
let them down top and bottom, putting a screen at 
the bed to shield the patient from the draught. 

She spoke in a low but extraordinarily clear voice,, 
every syllable sharply cut. 

“A bowl of cracked ice, please; now the linen.. 
Don’t bother; I’ll find everything.” 

She was already in the next room exploring. 
When Floyd came up with ice, she was changing the 
sheets; it was the most remarkable feat he had ever 
seen, she rolled one off and slipped on the other 
without disturbing the patient. Her hands were 
tiny, but flexible, strong; it was magic. How the 
room changed; everything in order, the bed fresh 
and clean, the patient soothed. She held Julie’s 
hand, whispering all kinds of encouraging things. 

“Now I’m going to give you something to eat; 
you’re hungry, of course you are; that husband of 
yours starves you.” 


82 


VAL SINESTRA 


She threw a smiling look at Floyd, who smiled 
back at her. She knew he spoilt his wife; he could 
see that. 

“No, I won’t go away; I’ll stay right here.” She 
took a bottle of prepared food out of her bag, which 
she warmed on the electric heater, cooing all the 
time, going about noiselessly on the smallest feet 
Floyd had ever seen. A trained nurse from his 
experience was a loud, fat, middle-aged woman who 
upset the house, ate all day long, and had to be 
waited on by the family. This little fairy was so 
helpful, so executive; she knew it all, she hadn’t 
asked a question. 

When Dr. McClaren came that day, he gave a 
quick glance around and said: 

“Now everything will be all right.” 

Floyd followed him down stairs. After a short 
silence the doctor spoke. 

“Has your wife any worries?” 

He tried to be quite truthful. 

“Oh, no; at least, none that I know of.” Then 
he spoke about that “little girl” upstairs, remarking 
how wonderfully quick she was. 

The doctor smiled. 

“Isn’t she very young?” 

“She’s had twenty-three years of hard experience. 
She was born in a hospital. Her mother died at her 
birth. The lot of us took care of her—the scrub 
woman, the nurses, the doctors, the patients; she 
grew up inhaling iodoform; it’s healthier than eau 


VAL SINESTRA 


83 


de cologne. Her dolls were little orphan babies. 
She learnt to sterilize instruments at an age when 
most children are being ‘perambulated’ in the park. 
She toddled after me, sat on the cots, watched the 
patients get well, watched them die. I could have 
made a good doctor out of her, but she thought 
nursing was more helpful. Her school graduates 
human beings.” 

S 


The patient improved. Miss Mary watched her 
drop into a quiet sleep, then flew over to see the 
doctor. She perched on the arm of a big chair; it 
wouldn’t do to sit in it when one is tired; it was 
too comfortable— 

“What are you doing here? Anything wrong.” 

“No. It’s that poor man.” 

The doctor chuckled. Floyd Garrison, spoilt 
child of Fortune, husband of the prettiest woman 
of New York’s pretty women, belonging to an ex¬ 
clusive set, the happy father of a fine boy, and here 
comes this child of the gutter and calls him ‘a poor 
man.’ Ha I Hal 

“The house is going to ruin, the food spoilt; the 
butler steals his neckties, stockings, handkerchiefs; 
the cook falsifies the bills.” 

“Well, how can we cure that?” 

“By reforming the household; would it appear 
ipbtrusive ?” 


84 


VAL SINESTRA 


*‘I don’t know, but he’s a nice fellow and you 
might try.” 

“Thanks, that’s what I came for. I want to make 
you my partner in crime.” 

“Wretch.” He flung a writing pad at her, which 
she dodged with great dexterity, and flew put. 

That night the dinner was uneatable. Floyd 
looked helpless. 

“Things are going badly, since my wife’s illness.” 

Here was Mary’s chance. 

“Will you let me attend to that?” 

Floyd thanked her, hoped she wouldn’t bother too 
much, put his car at her disposal, then followed her 
softly up the stairs, feeling that he had managed the 
house very well. Julie was asleep. 

“Do you think I could go to the club for a couple 
of hours—that is, if I’m not wanted?” 

“Oh yes, go; it will do you good. Take the latch 
key and come in as quietly as possible.” 

The next morning Floyd enjoyed a good break¬ 
fast, waited on by a very pretty girl in black, with 
a dainty cap and apron. He had never liked a 
waitress—too much like a tearoom, but Ellen, the 
new maid, didn’t give him a chance to miss the 
butler; she hovered around watching Miss 
Mary, responding to her quick glances. This 
amused Floyd. Martin must come to dinner; he’d 
fire ofE witticisms about being under petticoat 
government. 

Ellen was a girl-mother; her sweetheart promised 


VAL SINESTRA 


85 


to marry her, but he didn’t. Miss Mary saw her 
through her trouble, took her baby to Bridget, the 
wife of a coal heaver, who had seven babies. Mary 
encouraged Bridget to go on having them, but the 
cost of living was too high even for a coal heaver. 
She took the poor “bastard” to her wonderful 
bosom, and nursed it, happy because she didn’t have 
to dry up her milk. Mary put Bridget in the 
kitchen, Ellen in the dining-room; the little brat was 
smuggled in, and was so quiet, Mary was sure he 
knew he wasn’t wanted. She put a neighbor who 
was also “under obligations” in charge of the seven 
babies. 

Floyd was allowed to go in every morning and 
sit with his wife; he noticed Mary remained in the 
room. He said the same thing, mechanically, every 
time. 

“You feel better this morning, don’t you?” The 
atmosphere of the sick room struck him dumb; that 
ghostly silent creature lying there wasn’t Julie. 

He sat at the breakfast table—well cooked, well 
served. There was a flutter on the stairs. Mary 
flew in and sat opposite him, glylng him a quick 
glance. 

“Miss Mary, we should have a night nurse.” 

“Oh, no, there is no necessity of another nuisance 
in the house.” 

“But, you get no sleep.” 

“Oh, yes, I do.” 

“I hear you moving about at night.” 


86 


FAL SINESTRA 


“Oh, do you? Tm sorry. Til get a pair of soft 
slippers.*’ 

He went up as usual to see Julie. Mary met him 
at the door. 

She said in a low tone: 

“Just a minute and don’t stay.” 

“You feel better this morning, don’t you?” 

Her eyes were very wide open; she was looking 
beyond him; he turned; there was nobody in the 
room. Miss Mary was at the telephone calling the 
doctor. 

The sick woman raised herself in the bed, holding 
out her arms like a child who wants to be taken up. 
He bent to lift her; she pushed him away with un¬ 
believable force. 

“I don’t want you. I want—Martin.” 

Miss Mary came flying into the room. 

“What is it?” said Floyd. 

“She’s delirious again.” 

The cry never ceased; over and over again, sup¬ 
plicating, in a pitiable voice: 

“I want Martin!” 

When the doctor came, she caught at him eagerly. 

“What do you want, dear lady; tell me?” 

“I want Martin!” 

Floyd’s anguish was terrible; he was leaning 
against the door on the verge of a collapse. Mary 
signaled the doctor, who took him by the arm and 
led him Into the next room. 

“Is it Martin Steele?” said the doctor. 


VAL SINESTRA 


87 


“Yes.” 

“Send for him.” 

“I will not. She doesn’^t know what she’s saying.” 
Floyd’s voice was harsh. He was on his feet in a 
frenzy of rage. 

The voice came again, louder, more despairing. 

“I want Martin I” 

“Do something, for God’s sake I” cried Floyd. 

“There is nothing to be done but wait.” 

The doctor went back into the room. The cry 
continued. Miss Mary came in. 

“What is it, is she worse?” 

“No, but the doctor says, ‘telephone.* ” 

Floyd took up the receiver. What could Martin 
do in that room? “No I no I” 

“Martini Martini” It came again, that cry; it 
was terrible. 

Mary put the receiver in his hand. He called up 
the hotel 

The answer came, “Out.” 

He tried the club. 

“Yes, Mr. Steele was there.” 

“Who is it?” 

“Floyd.” 

“Julie?” came like a shot through the ’phone. 

“She is about the same.” 

Floyd heard the quick gasp of relief; wonderful 
how a wire can bear witness. 

“She has intermittent attacks of fever, calls for 


88 VAL SINESTRA 

her grandfather, her mother; she called your name 
once.” 

“Mine?” 

“It means nothing, of course, but the doctor 
thinks if she sees someone outside the family—” 

In a short time, Martin was there. Floyd went 
down to meet him; neither spoke. Floyd led the 
way upstairs. They stopped at the door of the sick 
room, and heard the cry of the delirious woman. 

“Martin! I want Martin!” 

With a bound Martin flung himself on his knees 
beside the bed. 

“Julie! Julie!” 

She opened her eyes, heavy with fever; they wan¬ 
dered about, seeking! seeking! 

“Julie!” 

She lifted herself into his arms. 

He held her close, whispering caressing words; 
she listened, her eyes fixed by the power of his; soon 
the tired lids drooped; she slept. 

Martin felt the fluttering of her heart. He had 
no sense of time, place; the world was unpeopled; 
he was the only man, she the only woman. The 
doctor’s watch registered forty minutes. Mary 
looked at Floyd. His eyes never left them; his 
wife in his friend’s arms. The doctor laid the sleep¬ 
ing woman gently back on the pillow. Martin 
dropped his head down on the bed, helpless; Miss 
Mary led him downstairs; he fell in a heap in the 
chair. He was conscious now of Floyd, not the 


VAL SINESTRA 


89 


friend—a stranger, with a drawn face, an icy voice. 

“What is there between you and my wife?’’ 

The ticking of a clock became distinctly sharp. 
Should he tell the truth now? No; it would make it 
impossible for him to come again; he would wait 
until she got well. He put his hands on Floyd’s 
shoulders, looking him straight in the face. 

Floyd repeated his question. 

“What is there between you and my wife?” 

“What there has always been, a deep affection.” 

“You are trying to steal her from me.” 

“How can you think that; you told me yourself 
she called the names of others.” 

“I lied. She called no one but you.” 

Martin’s face was telling tales; he went over to 
the fireplace. 

“You are unjust to her, but, if you persist, I won’t 
come again.” His voice faltered; his eyes filled up. 
Floyd had never been able to resist him. 

“You two are my only friends; if I lose you there 
is nobody, nobody.” 

He went to the door, then turned and put out his 
hand. They were friends again---to all appearances. 

6 

Mary jumped into the doctor’s car, and held a 
consultation. She sat with her legs drawn up, her 
elbows on her knees, her little serious face puckered. 
He liked her like that; something was coming. 


90 


VAL SINESTRA 


“Well, doctor,’’ said he. 

She put her little head on the side and returned 
his glance. She didn’t smile as usual. 

“It’s a psychosis. The fever is not physical; it’s 
a condition of the mind. I think she needs an¬ 
alysing.” 

His Scotch wrath broke over her head. 

“Stop that!—I won’t have it with her; this an¬ 
alysing has done too much mischief, dragging the 
wild beasts out of their caverns, showing the poor 
victims the horrors that are within them. I tell you, 
the people are playing with psycho-analysis like chil¬ 
dren with dynamite; they don’t understand it, nor 
do we, yet. Let that woman alone, do you hear 1— 
unless you want to rob her of the little reason she 
has left. She’s the victim of heredity; we can’t 
change that, can we? She’s the victim of a certain 
physical tendency, inborn; we can’t change that; 
she’s the victim of the errors of her ancestors; we 
can’t change that.” 

“No, Doctor, but we all are, if we knew it.” 

“It’s a good thing we don’t. Now I hope this 
woman’s love for her child and her husband will 
counteract other influences; mind you, she’s a good, 
innocent woman; but she is obsessed by an evil spirit 
which must be exorcised.” There he was, the old 
Scotch Calvinist. 

Julie was quiet until evening. 

“Where is Floyd?” 

“Do you want to sec him?” 


VAL SINESTRA 


91 


“Yes.” 

Mary flew downstairs. Floyd was trying to read 
the evening paper; trying to be just to his wife, his 
friend. He hated to be suspicious; it turned the 
honey of life to gall; such thoughts made him ill; 
he couldn’t live with them. He heard a patter, pat¬ 
ter. Mary put her head in the door, beckoning him. 
He found Julie crushed into the pillows. 

“Miss Mary says I’ve been out of my head.” 

Floyd was vexed. Why did Miss Mary tell her 
that? 

“Did I say irrational things?” 

“No, just babbled a bit.” 

“What did I say?” 

“Only disconnected words without meaning.” 

She evidently didn’t know what had happened. 

Floyd smoked his pipe that night, and read Emer¬ 
son on Friendship. Martin was to be pitied; he was 
a lonely wretch; he’d give him the benefit of the 
doubt. Mary came in to say good night. 

“Everything is all right. We’ll close up early. 
She’ll have a quiet night, I hope.” 

The hope was not realized. The sick woman had 
a terrible night; her pulse was jumping like a 
frenzied thing, but her mind was clear. She clung 
frantically to Mary. 

“I’m lost I save me 1 save me I” then she broke into 
convulsive sobbing, always begging to be helped. 
Mary shut the door carefully. It wouldn’t do for 
that “poor man” to hear. 


92 


VAL SINESTRA 


Floyd tossed uneasily. He was sure there was 
something mentally wrong with Julie; he had heard 
of women getting “queer” after weaning a child. 
He had been too harsh with Martin. She had called 
him in her delirium; that meant nothing. Martin 
had wanted to marry her, but it was all long forgot¬ 
ten; she was his wife now, the mother of his child; 
it was foolish to make a fuss about a few moments 
of delirium. Julie would never know about it. 

“What was that?” 

He jumped out of bed and listened He thought 
he heard somebody calling, “Martini Martin!” 

Julie’s door was shut; all was still. It was his 
own imagination; that cry was still in his ears. He 
went back to bed; he must get that idea out of his 
head; he wouldn’t let it become a mania with him. 
He would see Martin often, have him to dinner. It 
was low of him to keep on thinking evil of them 
both. The thought acted like a sedative; he slept. 

He was up and dressed before seven. The night’s 
depression descended again over him like a black 
veil. There was a knock; Mary stood outside, pale, 
agitated. 

“What is it? What is it?” 

“Come and see.” 

It was dark. He saw Julie’s figure lying across 
the bed; she was in a deep sleep. Mary opened a 
shutter gently. He stifled an exclamation. The 
long thick wavy hair flowing loosely over the pillow, 
over her heart, had turned white; she lay in an ocean 


VAL SINESTRA 


93 


of foam. What had happened to her in the night? 
What had been at work in her brain?—he had heard 
vaguely of a sudden shock turning the hair white. 
He gazed and gazed; it was as if an artist had 
dipped his brush into molten silver and drawn it 
through every hair in her head. Another long look; 
then he went downstairs, putting his hand on the 
balustrade to support himself. 

Mary closed the shutter softly and followed him. 
His mind was confused. The ordeal with his wife, 
culminating in this, was too much; he needed help. 
She waited, standing quietly beside him. He felt 
her intense sympathy; then he said in a low, hushed 
voice: 

“What could have caused it?” 

“It can easily be accounted for. Your wife is sub¬ 
ject to violent nervous headaches; she had an attack 
in the night.” 

“Was she sobbing?” 

“Yes, she suffered terribly. We must be brave 
for her sake.” 

He looked at her standing there, her eyes shin¬ 
ing, undaunted, courageous. Where did she get that 
spirit? She was no longer only a nurse; she was a 
comrade, a fellow-fighter; her voice was like a call 
to arms. 

“I was always very happy,” he said. “I mean, I 
thought it was happiness, but I see now that it was 
like being under shelter when others were destitute; 
that kind of happiness is selfish, isn’t it?” 


94 


VAL SINESTRA 


“Yes,” said Mary. “That’s why I try not to be 
too happy.” 

“My parents were my only friends. They left 
me; I had only my wife. Perhaps I wanted too 
much from her; she was unfortunate in her family; 
I should have taken better care—I—can’t see 
ahead I I don’t know how this will affect her. I— 
I don’t know.” 

“It will be a blow, but you can soften it for her.” 

“I, what can I do?” 

Mary hesitated. Why was she obliged to say 
what he should have known intuitively: did he love 
his wife? 

“Her heart would be at rest if you would con¬ 
vince her it doesn’t matter to you what color her 
hair is.” 

He was on his feet, his eyes averted. 

“You want me to tell her?” 

“Yes.” 

He went to the door, then came back. “Will you 
come with me?” 

“It’s better for you to go alone.” 

He entered his wife’s room, sat down beside the 
bed, feeling like an intruder. She awoke startled, 
her eyes were deep with the sleep-shadows of 
opiates. 

“Did I frighten you?” 

“No, but I felt someone was here— Something 
has happened I Tell me?” 

“Yes. Your hair.” 


VAL SINESTRA 


95 


“What about my hair?” 

“It has turned gray since last night.” She was. 
out of bed with a bound, standing before the mirror.. 

“Let in the light.” 

He went from window to window; the sun struck, 
the surface of the looking glass, dancing in and out 
of the silver veil that enveloped her. 

She gave a low cry, and shrunk away. 

“Julie, don’t grieve about what can’t be helped;, 
it often happens from such headaches; it’s your 
nerves.” He wanted to say, “You will always be; 
the same to me because I love you.” He couldn’t. 

“It is not a symptom, it is a punishment.” 

“You have done nothing to deserve punishment.” 

She looked at him, through him, past him. He- 
didn’t know her thoughts; that door was closed ta 
him. 

“I want to see Miss Mary.” 

Mary was surprised to find her patient sitting 
up In bed. She had wound her hair In a tight 
coil around her head, covering It with a heavy lace, 
cap. 

“Miss Mary, I am feeling better this morning; I 
don’t think I shall need you any longer.” 

Mary gasped. Where was the exhausted crea¬ 
ture of the night before, the helpless invalid? 

“I’m very glad, Mrs. Garrison. Any time you 
send for me, I will come.” Then she took Julie’s 
hand, bent forward and kissed her; there was a 
slight quiver of the mouth. 


96 


VAL SINESTRA 


“Don’t think I’m ungrateful, but I couldn’t bear 
you to say anything; it’s unspeakable, good-bye.” 

Floyd was waiting in the hall when Mary came 
down with her hat on, carrying her suitcase. 

“You are not going?” 

“There is nothing more for me to do here. Your 
wife is better; the shock will cure her.” Then she 
smiled at him. “I’m aching for the slums; my 
cradle stood there; there I learnt what life means; 
when I get thinking too much of myself, I go back 
and learn again.” 

He went with her to the door, and held her hand 
in a strong grasp; he could think of nothing worth 
saying. A cloud of dust blew in their faces; they 
were pulling down the little row of brick houses on 
the other side. 

Floyd stopped in the hall to brush himself off. 
The wreckers were working within him, scattering 
debris. He went up to his wife’s room again-, 
listened; there was no sound. He turned the knob 
cautiously; the door was locked. There was a sense 
of relief; he wouldn’t have to spend the morning in 
that dark room. He jumped into a taxi and drove 
to his club. 

7 

Julie gradually recovered; there was a feeling of 
strength in her limbs, a desire for movement she 
hadn’t felt since the birth of her child; it was the 
strength of despair. One day she took out her 


VAL SINESTRA 


97 


pretty gowns and hung them one by one on silk 
hangers in the room next to her bedroom. It had 
been Floyd’s den; he used to sit there at night dur¬ 
ing the first year of their marriage, reading. He 
could see his darling in her lace-trimmed bed. 
She complained she had no place to hang the Paris 
creations he bought for her; he suggested putting 
racks around his den, which they did; those lace, 
gold and silver gowns seemed to him to hang on 
bodies which swayed to and fro in the draught. The 
face was always Julie’s, in her different moods. The 
perfume stifled him. He had an old-fashioned idea 
about perfume; his mother never used it. He gave 
up reading there at night. 

She put her hats in boxes, her slippers, stockings, 
lingerie, wrapped carefully in tissue paper, in an old 
bureau, a family relic which Floyd refused to sell; it 
was two hours of fatiguing work, but she wasn’t 
tired. She opened the door and peered out; there 
was no one about; she crept down the stairs, went 
from room to room, covered furniture and mirrors 
with gray linen, and crept up again. When Ellen 
came home with the boy, she noticed her dark shin¬ 
ing hair. She dismissed her on the spot, and rang 
up for the Japanese butler to come back. 

Floyd was shocked to find the house so bare and 
cheerless. 

“Why have you had the covers put on again?” 

“It’s dusty. The furniture will be ruined, and 
we’re not going to entertain.” 


98 


VAL SINESTRA 


He didn’t answer. When he saw the Japanese, 
he asked for Ellen. 

“Oh! I sent her away.” 

“Why! has she done anything wrong?” 

“No! but she annoys me, she’s too good-looking.” 

Floyd feared his wife’s mind was unbalanced; she 
brooded too much over her misfortune. He was 
very tender, very indulgent, but sometimes his 
patience gave out. 

Days, weeks, months passed. Winter came with 
snow, ice, sleet. Julie spent most of the time in her 
room, rarely going down to dinner. Floyd tried to 
get her out for a walk, but had to compromise with 
the automobile. She’d wear a hat pulled down over 
her eyes, a thick veil, a long close-fitting coat, and 
avoided Fifth Avenue. The house remained cov¬ 
ered. Floyd begged her to take off those ugly, de¬ 
pressing gray things, but she sat silent, antagonistic; 
it always ended in his dashing out, and spending the 
day at the club. But his anger never lasted. The 
pathetic figure, crouching in a big chair, those weary 
lustreless eyes, hurt him terribly; she had lost her 
heauty. What is the elusive thing we call beauty? 
It is not form, it is not color; it is something that 
pervades, like the perfume of a flower in fresh earth, 
or a haunting magic in the woods. In a woman it 
Is a living spark that sets us aglow; that spark was 
dead in Julie; he had to admit it. The Image which 
he called by her name was blurred; she would be 


VAL SINESTRA 99 

an old, miserable woman; he, an old, disappointed 
man. 

He spent much of his time at the club. He’d read 
his morning paper there. He detested local poli¬ 
tics. The society column annoyed him; Mrs. C. had 
run off with her chauffeur, Mrs. M. was going to 
marry her riding master, a well-known woman was 
suing her millionaire husband for more alimony. It 
was horrible to have one’s domestic horrors made 
attractive reading; he resolved no one should sus¬ 
pect his. Then the paper would drop from his hand, 
the green Park grow shadowy, fade away; he’d 
awaken with a sense of guilt; a young man dozing 
in his chair, and all the unrest in the world. He 
would look about furtively; the others didn’t notice 
—they too were dozing. 

One day he went home earlier than usual. Julie, 
with the boy in her arms, was sitting at the window 
watching the workingmen on the iron frame of a 
building opposite; they were knocking, boring, climb¬ 
ing In and out like monkeys; It was fascinating. She 
was conscious of her flannel wrapper. Floyd was 
always well dressed, well groomed; his glance was 
like a sharp whip. He took the boy from her and 
put him on the bed. 

“The child Is heavy, you must not accustom him 
to be carried about; he makes the house unbearable 
with his cries. It’s all right to be a good mother, 
but you are overdoing it; you forget you have a 
husband.” 


100 


VAL SINESTRA 


She was on her feet facing him indignantly. 

“How can you speak to me like that? You have 
no pity for my misfortune!” 

“I’m sorry if I have offended you, but I don’t see 
why you should be so sensitive about your hair. You 
have become very neglectful; you have lost all self- 
respect. I’m ashamed of the servants.” 

“Floyd!” 

“I want to have Colonel Garland for dinner; I 
have business with him.” 

“No, no; I won’t see him.” 

“Very well. It’s not very pleasant for a married 
man to be obliged to invite his friends to a restau¬ 
rant, because his wife will not take the trouble to 
make herself presentable.” 

“The dinner will be served whenever you order 
it, but I will not come down.” 

“You can do as you please about that. I’ll ask 
him for Wednesday.” 

“Not so soon?” She was panic-stricken. 

“My mother never needed to prepare. Her table 
was always well supplied.” 

With this parting shot he went out. 

Julie stood aghast; her adoring slave was turning 
against her. A man loves only beauty in a woman; 
when she loses that, she loses everything. She was 
so young; what was she going to do with the rest 
of her life? She sat despairing, trying to think her¬ 
self out of the network of misery which entangled 
her. She couldn’t, poor thing. The present was a 


VAL SINESTRA 


101 


horror to her; the future, a blank. She went back 
to the past, lived it all over again and again—Mar¬ 
tin I the joy of those secret meetings; Hippolyte— 
the side door which opened only wide enough to slip 

into the dark corridor; there, in Martin’s arms- 

The child cried; she threw herself down beside 
him, pressing him violently to her. He struggled 
She held him tightly—muttering unconsciously, “My 
body, my Soul, my little Martin,” peering into his 
face—as If seeking something to console her. These 
paroxysms of despair sapped her strength. She was 
no longer apathetic, but groping, groping for some 
remedy. She’d go back always to those wonderful 
days with Martin. She was religious at heart, but 
she would have gladly given her hopes of redemp¬ 
tion to be able to look into the mirror and see once 
more her young face, her soft dark hair. Hippolyte 
had admired her hair; she saw him again, so suave, 
so handsome, heard his exquisite French, caught 
again the laughing significance of the looks which 
passed between the two men—It was madly fasci¬ 
nating; day and night it all repeated Itself In her 
brain, revolving like an ever-turning wheel—Martin 
—Hippolyte—Pierrot—the sweet, pungent odor of 
the place; then the suggestion worked. Hippolyte 
had often told them of his wonderful salves, lotions, 
hair restorers—he might know a way to restore the 
color of her hair. She looked up his address—took 
the receiver In her hand, a moment of fear. Irresolu¬ 
tion, then she called the number. 



102 


VAL SINESTRA 


“I want to speak to Hippolyte.” 

“Oui, Madame, I am here.” 

His voice set her nerves quivering. 

“It’s Mrs. Garrison speaking. You don’t know 
my married name, I was Julie Gonzola.” 

“Madame, I knew your voice. How could I for¬ 
get it?” 

“Will you come and see me today at four? Thank 
you.” 

She was terribly excited. What would he think 
when he saw her now? He must help her—he 
must! It was her last hope. 

Punctually at four, the boy knocked. 

“A gentleman downstairs.” 

She shrunk away—she couldn’t see him. 

“He says you expect him.” 

With a strong effort she controlled the impulse to 
send the man away. 

“Show him up.” 

Hippolyte looked curiously at Julie, not grasping 
what had happened to her. She was embarrassed, 
didn’t know what to say; then she slipped off her 
cap and let her hair down. It fell to the bottom of 
her dress. He gasped and broke into a shower of 
compliments. His admiration was evidently sin¬ 
cere. Julie’s spirits rose; it was not all over. 

“My hair turned white when I was ill. I want it 
restored to its natural color; I can give you the 
shade—” 

^^Mais non! Madame, it is quite le dernier cri — 


VAL SINESTRA 


103 


we are bleaching the hair now, but we couldn’t do it 
like this, Madame. Your hair will be the sensation; 
it needs a little tonic oil and massage.” Then he 
looked at her again. “Madame is long indisposed?” 

“Yes, I have been in the house all winter.” 

“Madame needs fresh air and the Swedish treat¬ 
ment—the beauty will come back; put yourself in 
my hands, and you will see I” 

8 

The Wednesday agreed on, arrived. Floyd left 
the house without seeing Julie; he was getting used 
to that; the entire morning she would be occupied 
with the boy, always in a wrapper with that dis¬ 
figuring cap on her. She bathed, dressed, undressed 
the child like a professional nurse. Floyd protested 
in vain. 

On the way down town he telephoned the house. 

“Is Madame awake yet?” 

“Oh, yes, sir.” 

“Connect me with her room, will you?” 

Julie called “Hello.” He thought her voice had 
more life in it than usual. 

“Julie, do you remember I was to ask Colonel 
Garland to dinner tonight, but if you are still against 
it, I can postpone It.” 

“Oh, no I The dinner Is ordered.” 

“Thank you.” 

He dropped the receiver with a guilty feeling. 


104 


VAL SINESTRA 


Perhaps he had been too harsh. He didn’t know 
what to do about her; he was quite helpless; life 
was becoming unbearable. 

Colonel Garland greeted Floyd with delight. He 
was talking to a tall man in his private office who 
came up and shook hands. 

“You don’t remember me, Mr. Garrison?” 

Floyd took in the tired face, the dark-rimmed 
eyes, the deep lines. 

“Yes, I do! Are you still ‘sweating blood’ for 
money?” 

“No, I’m sweating blood to keep It.” 

“Have you any left?” 

“A few drops, but I’ll be bled white if this goes 
on. 

He laughed mirthlessly, said “So-long,” and left. 

The Colonel looked after him, speaking with a 
touch of pity and contempt. 

“That fellow made a million during the War; 
It’s been going the other way for some time, and— 
he’s got a handsome, extravagant wife. Now—if 
we pull down those old shanties near the river, and 
build up big warehouses—” 

“No! no! I’m not a wrecker; they bring enough 
for my modest wants.” 

“That’s just what your father said twenty years 
ago. You’re getting very much like him.” 

Floyd didn’t take that as a compliment. The men 
of twenty years ago were a century behind the times. 
Then, rather timidly, hoping for a refusal, he said: 


VAL SINESTRA 


105 


“Will you come and take pot-luck with me to¬ 
night? My wife’s not well; she can’t join us—I 
must find some congenial occupation. We’ll talk it 
over.” 

The Colonel was all animation. 

“Politics I We need young men. We’ve got a 
job on our hands to rebuild the world.” 

Late in the afternoon they went to the Republican 
Club for a cocktail from the Colonel’s private stock. 
There were the usual jokes about Prohibition being 
a good law—for others. On alighting from the car, 
Floyd was surprised to see the soft red gleam of the 
colored glass fixture over the porch. The filmy lace 
window curtains through which the light shone were 
not there when he left the house that morning; be¬ 
fore he could take out his latch key, the door was 
swung open. The Jap in spotless white smiled a 
welcome; they entered the parlor— 

“By God,” cried the Colonel, “this is something 
like. A beautiful color, that velvet.” 

Floyd smiled. “Mulberry, they call It.” 

The chairs, the sofa with its cushions, were like 
old friends; he saw again those well-loved water 
colors; his mother looking down at him, and through 
the door, the glimpse of a beautifully set dinner 
table—a picture covered for a long time, once more 
in the light. 

Julie came swiftly toward them, extending her 
hand to the Colonel. She was in a state of excite¬ 
ment, like an actress who makes her debut in a new 


106 


VAL SINESTRA 


role. Her color came and went. A crescent of black 
plaster deepened the darkness of her eyes. The de¬ 
spised hair revenged itself with its beauty; it was 
mounted in shining, rippling masses on the top of 
her head. She wore a soft white gown, embroidered 
with seed pearls, a train of gold sweeping the— 
ground. Her arms and neck were free of ornament; 
in her corsage a large red American Beauty rose. 
At dinner she kept up a flow of small talk accentu¬ 
ated by soft glances, winning smiles. The Colonel 
listened as if every word were a new truth, the 
usual platitudes taking on a mysterious significance. 
He was sixty, held himself very erect, could easily 
be taken for ten years younger, and he loved the 
ladies. 

Floyd was silent, trying to overcome a queer feel¬ 
ing. Was this gracious, smiling woman his wife? 
Was he sitting at his own table? Who was he, any¬ 
how? The Colonel’s stentorian voice with its agree¬ 
able Southern accent broke in on his confused mental 
condition. 

“If you will permit me to tell you how much I 
admire your perfect taste in dress. You know what 
suits you—an inspiration to powder your hair.” 

“Oh,” laughed Julie, “it’s not powdered, it’s nat¬ 
ural. It runs in our family to turn gray early. My 
father was white at twenty-one.” 

The gallant Colonel turned this to his credit. 

“My dear Mistress Garrison, Nature has been 
your Fairy Godmother; she has waved her wand 


VAL SINESTRA 


107 


over your head, bestowing one charm more, the gift 
of original beauty.’* 

The evening passed quickly in light persiflage, 
Floyd listening as if he were in the auditorium of a 
theatre. At the door the Colonel gave one look 
back. He could have fought a duel for her. 

“We haven’t had a chance to talk business,” said 
Floyd. 

“Who could, with such a radiant vision before 
us?” laughed the Colonel. “Come down to the 
office.” 

Floyd went back to Julie. 

“Thank you for making such a sacrifice.” It 
sounded foolish, but he didn’t know what to 
say. 

She came closer to him. He was afraid to touch 
her; she was like a strange woman in his house. 
That soft sensual smile set him on fire. She slid 
into his arms; he kissed her neck, hair, her lips; she 
let herself be adorei His love had been ideal in 
those early wonderful days of his marriage. He 
reverenced his wife; he was afraid to repel her. He 
had heard of some men whose wives hated them for 
their lack of consideration. Julie laughed at his in¬ 
nocence. He often wondered if she appreciated be¬ 
ing his first love; he couldn’t answer that now, after 
four years. He ceased trying to probe her soul; he 
worshipped her body. 

In the physical intoxication of the next few 
months, he forgot all his plans for future activity. 


108 VAL SINESTRA 

Love can be a despot or a liberator; Floyd was in 
chains again. 

9 

When it was known the Garrisons had “come 
back,” they were deluged with invitations. 

“Do you want to go?” 

“Of course, what’s the use of Paris gowns if I 
can’t make the other women green?” She was in 
good humor now, caressed, spoilt, every wish ful¬ 
filled. He gave her a new car, a gorgeous thing 
fitted up like a boudoir, trying to shake ofi a sicken¬ 
ing consciousness that he was buying her favors. He 
pulled wires for a box at the opera (it was an 
achievement to get one) ; she rewarded him with 
a long kiss; he developed a prodigality which 
astounded the Colonel. 

“You’re going it, my boy. You’re beyond your 
income.” 

“Oh, sell something,” laughed Flc^yd. “I must 
have money.” 

The Colonel didn’t like the flippant answer, the 
restless way. He wasn’t quite certain, but it seemed 
once or twice the boy had been drinking. He had 
noticed since Prohibition many sober men had taken 
to drink; psychologically interesting, the resistance 
to personal restraint. . . . 

The opening night of the opera, Julie was the 
centre of attraction. She had taken the family 
jewels out of the safe deposit. A great cluster of 


VAL SINESTRA 


109 


diamonds set in antique silver shone on her velvet 
bodice of old wine, a glittering aigrette in her hair 
which was no longer an old gray—treatment had 
changed it into the mat silver which one sees on 
the head of a marble statue, with life added to its 
charm. She stood in the box in her velvet wrapj 
Floyd took it off with a feeling of excitement. He 
felt the sensation she created; he was running a 
blooded mare for the first prize. 

Maud sat in front with Tom Dillon. She had 
played her last trump in the game of matrimony. It 
wasn’t a King now, but a Knave who cared for her; 
she was sure of that. For the rest, she looked into 
her mirror and saw her future; it spelt wrinkles. 

“Who is that gorgeous creature?” 

“Don’t you know your friend Julie Garrison?’^ 
She put up her lorgnette. 

“What has she done with her hair?” 

“Bleached it. Catch up, Maudy. A celebrated 
cocotte in Paris has made white hair the rage; she 
looks like one, doesn’t she?” 

“Yes, she does—wonderful. I always said Julie 
had great possibilities; there’s something about her 
that attracts men. Look at Martin.” 

He was standing against a post opposite the box. 
His eyes fastened on Julie, his mouth twisted Into a 
derisive smile; the Colonel was there pouring out 
his usual compliments. Men were coming in and 
out, old club friends of Floyd’s, all eager to renew 
their acquaintance. Julie’s illness had upset all hls> 


110 


VAL SINESTRA 


calculations, but there was one cause for satisfac¬ 
tion: she had wanted him, he had saved her, she 
belonged to him, not Floyd. He was waiting for a 
propitious moment; she must tell Floyd the truth. 
He waited because he was not sure of her; after a 
long siege of fever, the blood cools off. 

He dropped In one day at Hippolyte’s Parlor— 
he went there now to hear about Julie. “Madame 
was going to have a dinner party,’’—he had made 
a supreme effort. The phenomenon of her hair had 
given him a great deal of thought. He was in his 
way a scientist; the psychic side of it Interested him. 
“You must see her superb hair; It suits her to per¬ 
fection. It gives the last touch of that ^Je ne sais 
quoi* which she lacked. It was caused In my opinion 
by some Intense subconscious passion.” Martin bent 
over eagerly. “A psychic power which acts like the 
eruption of a volcano; It tears her, agonizes her, she 
struggles with It, Is not quite able to translate It— 
yet— Her husband is a nice fellow, mais vous 
savez, Puritanism, the narrow path; he’ll never de¬ 
ceive her, nor pardon her If she deceives him. That 
little house Is no frame for a woman like her. She 
needs life, sparkle, passion —Voila toutP* 

During the next few months Hippolyte’s made¬ 
moiselle brought now and again a deep red rose, 
and set It In an exquisite glass vase on Julie’s dress¬ 
ing table. Julie asked no questions; her eyes glist¬ 
ened. She furtively put the rose to her lips; then 
she’d sit for hours under the hands of the French 


VAL SINESTRA 


111 


woman, massage, electric treatment, hot — coldy 
until her body exhaled an indefinable intoxicating^ 
perfume. . . . 

Maud and Tom made their way to the Garrison 
box. Julie, with a keen woman’s look, saw at once 
that Maud’s gown, jewelry, furs, were no longer 
imitations. Tom was evidently embarrassed and 
hung back. Floyd rather liked him; he was genuine; 
he didn’t disguise the fact that he was a rotter. He 
said, “I’m no good; take me as I am, or not at all.’^ 

“What have you been doing all this time?” 

“Oh I nothing much,” laughed Maud, “shopping, 
house hunting, getting married; we didn’t announce 
It, it wasn’t worth while.” Floyd grasped Tom’s 
hand. 

“I couldn’t get her, any other way, so we called 
on the Judge—We’ve been married six weeks; so 
far it’s all right—I’m going to buy a house and 
put it in her name—If I don’t behave myself, she 
can kick me out.” 

Maud was sitting in front with Julie, talking over 
joining the young matrons and giving a series of 
dinners. 

Suddenly she said: 

“Have you seen Martin Steele lately?” 

“I’ve been ill a long time.” 

“He’s here tonight.” 

“Yes, I saw him standing at the back.” 

“He looks awful, doesn’t he?” 

Julie didn’t answer, Maud said afterwards to 


112 


VAL SINESTRA 


her husband: “Juhe was always different from the 
rest of us; she was queer tonight, didn’t hear a word 
I said. I’m certain she’s not all there.” 

As they were going out, they passed Martin. 

“Come with us to the dancing club. Tom’s sure 
to take too much; you can help me get him home.” 

Martin went, but it was Tom who had to take 
Martin home, abusingly drunk, fighting like a beast. 

That night Julie had dreams, and talked in her 
sleep. She flung her arms around Floyd. 

“I’m so glad you love me just the same.” Floyd 
was a happy man. He had finished his breakfast 
and was looking out of the front window, waiting 
for his wife to awaken. 

“Floyd, Floyd.” 

He went up the stairs three at a time. 

She held out her arms to him. 

“Floyd, we must move away from here; the street 
is getting impossible.” A crash of falling timbers 
next door strengthened her position. 

“JulieI This is our home; you know how I love 
it. How can you ask me such a thing?” 

He was losing his temper; she was on the verge 
of tears, and last night when he held her in his arms, 
he swore—they all do at those times. 

“I’ll do anything for you, anything, but my home 
is a part of me; you don’t realize how I love it.” 

“More than me?” She was pouting now, like a 
child. 


VAL SINESTRA 


113 


“Oh, no I—different—^you won’t ask me to leave 
it, will you?” It was pathetic, the appeal in the 
man’s voice. 

“But I also loved my home; I left it for you.” 

He was about to say, “It’s not the same. The 
roots of my life are here; you are an alien.” He 
didn’t want to offend her; then he went down to see 
the Colonel, and mentioned with much embarrass¬ 
ment that the street was getting unbearable. 

“Yes, it’s very unhealthy for your wife and child 
to inhale all that dust. We’ve secured a house.” 

“Oh, have you? My wife didn’t tell me.” 

“No, she wanted to give you an agreeable sur¬ 
prise. It’s on Park Avenue. We’ve rented it for 
the winter.” He didn’t add, with the privilege of 
buying; that was to be kept secret. He liked to be 
in conspiracy with Julie against her husband. 

“It’s perfection; we’ve secured it with servants, 
wine cellar, everything complete.” 

Floyd went home and compromised with Julie. 
The furnished house for the winter only; he was 
grateful she had not insisted on going to a fashion¬ 
able hotel!—camp in the mountains for the sum¬ 
mer, and in the autumn when the street was built up, 
to return to the old home. Julie was satisfied with 
the bargain. The house would be impossible shut 
in on both sides; the walls were cracking; everything 
was going to pieces. She would never go back. 

Floyd stood at the door of the car waiting for the 
“bunch” to come down—the boy, the nurse, the 


114 


VAL SINESTRA 


Pekinese, countless bags, dress suit cases, last- 
minute bundles, and—^Julie very much excited. She 
had gone back for the little glass vase which had 
been forgotten. He was physically tired, mentally 
agonized; he cast one look back and jumped into the 
car. He had a peculiar feeling; he was the automo¬ 
bile ; Julie was driving, 

10 

The house in Park Avenue was the very last 
word; Floyd had to confess that. The walls tinted 
a cold gray, the light coming from invisible corners, 
telephones, a radio-cabinet, china closets hidden be¬ 
hind panels; the entire floor could be made into a 
dancing hall by pushing the doors into the wall; no 
fireplace, very little furniture, meals rolled in ready 
to serve by the “haughty’’ Swede hired with the 
house, everything cooked “a la mode” by a chef, also 
hired with the house. 

Julie was hysterical with joy; she had been all her 
life the victim of antiques; this was all so exquisitely 
modern. Floyd thought with intense longing of his 
little home; he vowed to himself he would not desert 
it; he’d go there every day and read his evening 
paper. 

The house-warming was to be a brilliant affair. 
Maud with her restless activity schemed various 
plans for a sensational success. Tom sampled the 
cellar; it was perfection. Floyd was dispatched 


VAL SINESTRA 115 

here, there, and everywhere; Julie sat back and gave 
the others carte blanche. 

“Don’t consult me,” she said; “you three will do 
it all right.” 

On the day of the dinner, Julie had been the entire 
afternoon in the hands of Hippolyte’s skilled lieu¬ 
tenants. He himself was to come later and give her 
hair the last touches. 

True to his resolve, Floyd had spent his after¬ 
noons in the little house, reading his paper; but he 
was beginning to feel a superstitious dread when he 
put the key in the door. That day the room seemed 
unbearably chilly; he lit the fire with great difficulty. 
The wood piled up in a basket was damp, it sput¬ 
tered awhile, gave out sighs as if it were in pain. 
Soon the fretful flame died out. He couldn’t read, 
looked at his watch, and went home. 

The perfume from his wife’s room pervaded the 
house. His room was on the floor above—they had 
become fashionable. He saw less and less of Julie, 
she had no time for him; she was wrapped up in her¬ 
self, her looks, her gowns; vanity had developed in 
her to such an extent it staggered him; she sought 
admiration, was a slave to style, adopting the daily 
change no matter how extreme; a night at home was 
unbearable to her; he dragged himself along; he 
wasn’t jealous of the crowd of men always around 
her; but it wouldn’t look well for the husband to 
be absent. 

He hadn’t seen Martin for a very long time. He 
was sure Julie had forgotten him, she couldn’t love 


116 


VAL SINESTRA 


anyone but herself; he pulled himself up; he mustn’t 
think that way. He remembered her as a girl, so 
yielding, so sweet. Illness changes the character of 
people sometimes. He must be patient with her; 
but life had become very hard; the nights were 
spent in carousing. He didn’t know what to do 
with his days until Julie woke up—and he was oHy 
thirty. 

He dressed and went down to his wife’s door—his 
Mecca; it was open. Hippolyte, with a strand of 
her hair over his shoulder, was bending down talk¬ 
ing confidentially. Floyd abominated him; a man 
who could make a fortune out of the vanity of 
women was despicable; but most fortunes are 
directly or indirectly made out of the vanity of 
women. 

“Floyd, come in, I’ve such news for you. I’ve 
sold our house.” 

“What house?” 

“Our little house, to Hippolyte.” 

“You’re mad.” 

Julie gave him a quick surprised look, and got 
rid of Hippolyte. 

“Floyd, you shouldn’t speak to me like that be¬ 
fore Hippolyte; he’ll tell the next customer we 
quarrel.” There was a suspicion of tears. 

“Julie! you’re mad! quite mad! What the devil 
can he do with our house?” 

“He’ll make a fortune out of it, if he follows my 
advice; the first floor will be a fine Colonial tea 
room; the old furniture and our kitchen coppers will 


VAL SINESTRA 


117 


be just the thing; the second floor, a beauty parlor; 
and above, in your father’s workshop, a Turkish 
bath.” 

And she could sit there calmly and say such things. 

The Colonel came in early, poured out a volley 
of compliments which put her in good humor. She 
whispered to him. 

“I’ve won; he’s getting used to it.” 

The dinner was delayed until past ten, waiting for 
Maud and Tom who arrived with profuse apologies. 
Tom had been running all day from one shop to 
another trying to find a string of beads for Maud. 

“Costly things, those glass beads,” said Tom. 
“Reminds me of the squaws up in the Reservation, 
when I was travelling with whiskey; they had them 
around the waist, neck, legs, through the ears and 
nose, and by Godl they thought they were in full 
dress.” 

When the dancing commenced, Julie was sur¬ 
rounded ; she was the prettiest woman in the room, 
and a wonderful dancer. Floyd, in the next room 
among some loose fellows, was drinking heavily. 
The sedans were not ordered back; chauffeurs gos¬ 
sip among themselves, and after twelve, the guests 
were going “slumming.” Taxis were engaged— 
Masks and dominos were put on in the hall, one not 
knowing who the other was; Maud had done the 
pairing—she saw to it that husband and wife did not 
meet. Tom was to have Julie, Maud selected 
Floyd; he wouldn’t make love to her. 


118 


VAL SINESTRA 


The masked figures in dominos slipped past the 
sentinel at the door; he was the devil who was send¬ 
ing souls to Hell that night. 

Floyd wanted to fight everybody, then broke 
down and blubbered; Tom had a fellow feeling, put 
him in a chair, and told the haughty Swede to look 
after him. At the door he got mixed up in the 
crowd, found himself with someone in a taxi. A 
pair of soft lips met his, he shouted for joy. 

“Maudyl where’s Julie?” 

She laughed. “Oh, she’s in very good company.” 
She nestled up to him. “Don’t think of her, only 
ourselves. Let’s make believe we’re not married.” 

The taxis were speeding downtown. Julie took 
off her mask, leaned back; she was excited, warm 
from dancing. Her companion bent over her. She 
looked into flaming eyes. 

“Julie!” 

That hour in Martin’s arms, she forgot her hus¬ 
band, her child, herself; promised him everything. 
This time, he swore, she should keep her word. 

11 

Floyd had an insane desire to smash things. He 
threw a bottle of wine into the glass and china on the 
table, overturning the electric candles; the fuse burnt 
out, putting the room in darkness. He laughed 
hysterically. He was on a ship, in a terrible storm, 
the ground was slipping away, billows were rising 
on all sides. 


VAL SINESTRA 


119 


“Hey there, steward, damn it, where’5 my cabin?” 

The haughty Swede lifted him like a child, car¬ 
ried him into the elevator which took them up to the 
servants’ quarters, unlocked a small door at the 
extreme end of the hall; it was an unused room, 
with one lamp hanging from the ceiling. He put 
Floyd on the sofa, lit the lamp, and carefully 
shut the door—he didn’t want the “master’s” rav¬ 
ings to be heard. The caterer’s men were still in 
the house. Some might inform; a raid would lose 
him his place. 

When Floyd awoke, the lamp sputtered in fitful 
gleams. His head was like lead, his tongue parched; 
there was a sense of deep humiliation, waves of 
shame, higher than the ocean. He looked about the 
room. It was in disorder—^boxes piled up in a 
corner, a large desk strewn with papers; at the door 
stood the Swede. 

“Where am I? Whose room is this?” 

“This is a room we keep closed, sir.” 

“Why?” 

“The master killed himself here, the mistress 
locked the door and gave me the key; she ordered 
me not to open it until she came again. She didn’t 
come.” 

“Where is she?” 

“In Paris, sir.” 

“He killed himself and she went to Paris?” 

“Yes sir, shot himself. He was a fine man, sir, a 
very fine man. When I came in to announce dinner, 


120 VAL SINESTRA 

he was lying on that sofa where you are, the blood 
pouring out.” 

Floyd was on his feet, quite sober now. There 
were heavy dark stains on the gray rep. The man 
answered Floyd’s questioning look. 

“That’s blood, sir, and this and this.” The gray 
rug was stained in dark red; there were splashes of 
It on the white wall. 

“Why did you put me in here?” 

“Because the house was full of strange people. I 
didn’t want them to see you like that.” 

“Thank you, I’m much obliged to you.” 

“Shall I bring you a little whiskey and soda?” 

“No thank you. I’m not a'^drinker.” 

“I see that, sir,” said the man. “A cup of strong 
black coffee will set you all right.” 

“Thank you.” 

Floyd looked about the room. On the desk there 
was a box half filled with cigars, stationery, postage 
stamps, everything just as the unhappy man had left 
them. The Swede came in with some strong black 
coffee which Floyd swallowed. 

“Colonel Garland told me to give you this when 
you came to.” It was a large legal envelope; Floyd 
took it mechanically, flung it on the desk. 

“When you are ready, sir. I’ll lock up here.” 

Floyd stood fascinated. It was the only room in 
that big house that meant something more than 
wood—marble—^The desk was littered, the pigeon¬ 
holes stuffed with papers, the deep arm chairs, the 


VAL SINESTRA 


121 


heavy draperies belonged to former days, the man 
must have had trouble with his wife about it; she 
had put him and his “old sticks” in the garret. 

The legal envelope was lying on the desk where 
he had thrown it. He took out a typewritten docu¬ 
ment. The little house was in his wife’s name. The 
Colonel had suggested it as a wedding gift. “It was 
only a matter of form, it was the custom for a man 
to put the home in the wife’s name,” Floyd laugh¬ 
ingly assented. What did it matter? All he had 
was hers, himself included. Here it was in black and 
white, sold on easy terms to Hippolyte; at the bot¬ 
tom was written in her large clear hand, Julie 
Abravanel Gonzola Garrison; she had done it with¬ 
out consulting him; she had the right. 

The monotonous voice of the Swede broke the 
silence. 

“He was a very fine man, sir-—and a liberal man. 
She was a beauty; that’s her picture.” 

On the desk was a colored print of a woman in 
bridal costume, all lace, satin-orange blossoms, an 
enormous bouquet half hiding her face; it was like 
the wax models one sees in a show window. 

The Swede took a photo out of his pocket and 
handed it to Floyd. 

“This Is the master; I asked him for it the night 
before he died. I was very fond of him,” his voice 
broke. 

Floyd knew that care-lined face: “The man who 
sweated blood.” He shivered. He tried to pull 


122 


VAL SINESTJIA 


himself together; the horror of it struck him down. 
He staggered against the desk; on it lay an open 
letter, crushed together, as if thrown there in haste; 
his eye caught unconsciously what was written. 

It’s over. I’ve made superhuman efforts; everything is gone. I 
was afraid to tell you the last time you demanded money, throwing 
up to me I hadn’t made good. I told you this house would ruin us, 
but you didn’t care! What’s the good of a man who can’t pay out? 
I’ve begged and begged; this is the last time! You said you 
couldn’t be poor, and there are others. That’s always in my ears! 
I see now what a fool I’ve been! I’ve spent my best years schem¬ 
ing for money, and you took it and flung it in the air. I’ve had 
nothing from my life! nothing! It’s too late to commence again. 
Come back! Come back! 

Floyd shuddered. He looked again at the blood 
stains; he saw the man with a pistol in his hand. It 
wasn’t a fair exchange—his soul for her body. He 
sat in the big chair; that other man must have 
crouched there with the pistol in his hand. He had 
usurped a sanctuary, bought with money what an¬ 
other had built with blood. 

“I’m ready to lock up the room, sir.” 

He staggered to his feet, thrust the legal envelope 
in his pocket, went downstairs and into the street. 

The sedans rolled up and down the avenue. Peo¬ 
ple stepped out in front of brilliantly lit residences, a 
happy care-free crowd, or were they like him, a lie ? 

He moved mechanically, elbowing his way through 
the mass of theatre-goers, gradually getting down 
into the business district, quiet, dark. He stood be¬ 
fore his old home, huddled together as if shrinking 


VAL SINESTRA 


123 


away from the giant buildings on either side, un¬ 
locked the door; there was an odor like a crypt. He 
struck a match, lit the half-burnt candle on the hali 
stand, held it high, peering into the corners, through 
open doors, taking in every well-known detail—the 
straight-back mahogany chairs covered with mul¬ 
berry velvet, the “tidies.” He could see the shuttle 
in his mother’s delicate fingers dancing in and out of 
the white thread—the rag rugs made by his grand¬ 
mother. People were hunting for them in little coun¬ 
try villages; antiquarians were reproducing them by 
thousands; but these were his rags. He went slowly 
up the narrow stairs; the creaking of the boards 
used to anger him when his mother was ill. He 
looked out at the desolate garden through little glass 
panes, just large enough for a boy’s face. He saw 
himself again gloating over the first snow-storm, run¬ 
ning down to the cellar for his sled, his feet dancing 
impatiently whilst Prudence tied, the soft' warm shawL 
she had knitted for him about his head and neck.. 

He stopped at the first landing. The old clocic 
was covered with dust; he found the key insidfe,, 
wound it, set it right; its ticking echoed through* the* 
house; it seemed to him like a human thing whose 
heart had stopped for fright, then commenced to 
beat again in glad relief. He opened the door of the 
bedroom. Here he had brought his bride, here his: 
boy was born, here he had watched Martin holding- 
his wife in his arms. On the dressing-table was a 
faded rose; it fell to pieces in his hand. He went 


124 


VAL SINESTRA 


to his father’s workshop; the images took on life 
in the flicker of the candle light—the Negro, the 
Italian shoe boy, his mother clasping him in her 
arms, an unfinished bust of his father, Rip Van 
Winkle with his head smashed—he took it all in; a 
life picture, the background stretching out in the full 
sunlight of generations, an old landscape. He was 
framed in it—he himself—that self, simple, senti¬ 
mental, ideal, old fashioned—the self that was not 
cynical, reckless, material, and all the things we call 
“modern.” He scented the smell of fallen plaster, 
felt the shaking of timbers; the wreckers had him 
under the hammer, destroying his foundations. 

The table was littered with old newspapers and 
rags used in modelling; he stood for a moment 
motionless, like a man offering a sacrifice on the 
altar of his domestic gods, then he dropped the 
candle. Little flames started here, there, grew 
bigger; the illumination cast a glow over his 
mother’s face. She smiled at him. He shut the, 
door, groping his way downstairs; at the gate he 
stopped to listen to the clear chime of the clock as it 
struck one, two, three. . . . 

There was no trace of the night orgy in the Park 
Avenue mansion. He went up to his wife’s room; 
she was in bed sleeping quietly. The soft-shaded 
lamp which burnt through the night—she had a hor¬ 
ror of darkness—cast a soft rosy glow. “Was this 
beautiful creature lying there, his wife? No! 


VAL SINESTRA 


125 


No!—a legalized mistress, and he, a sensualist.” 

In that moment passion burnt up in him—the 
body of love, the Idol, fell in ashes. He took the 
bill of sale from his pocket, put it beside her on the 
bed, then went slowly up to his room, shut the door, 
and burst into a loud laugh. 

12 

The next morning at breakfast he read the press 
headings. 

“The old Garrison homestead destroyed by fire, a 
total loss, on account of Mr. Garrison’s neglect to 
renew the insurance. Fire caused by a cigarette or 
cigar stump thrown carelessly from one of the tall 
adjacent buildings. The house was a tinder box. 
Fortunately, the family had moved to their palatial 
residence on Park Avenue.” 

He marked the notices with red pencil, and sent: 
them up on his wife’s breakfast tray. He heard the 
maid knocking, and Julie’s voice saying “Come in.” 
He could see her opening the papers, reading the 
marked lines; there was a loud cry and a heavy fall; 
he went up quickly. She was lying on the floor 
rigid, the paper clutched in her hand; It was Im¬ 
possible to bring her to. He telephoned for Dr. 
McClaren, who came at once. Floyd told him 
about the fire In a few words. 

“It must have been a great shock to her,” said the 
doctor. 


126 


VAL SINESTRA 


“I don’t know,” answered Floyd. The doctor 
looked at him curiously, then went into Julie’s room. 

He brought her to, insisted on her resting that 
day in bed, and said to Floyd, “She’ll be all right. 
There’s no cause for worry; I’ve seen her like that 
before.” 

Julie believed with all her superstitious, secretive 
soul, that her hair turning white had been a punish¬ 
ment for giving in to her suppressed passion for 
Martin; and last night in that very hour of burning 
joy their house was in flames. “What did it mean? 
What was that unseen revengeful Power preparing 
for her?—perhaps another blow, a physical de¬ 
formity?” 

With a cry of terrible fear, she sprang out of bed, 
locked the door, stood before the long mirror ex¬ 
amining herself closely, not like a beautiful woman 
exulting over her reflected beauty, but with the fear 
of a guilty soul seeking the brand of further punish¬ 
ment. “What now? What now?” Her body was 
spotless, like white marble with a delicate tracery of 
blue veins. She gave a long sigh of relief. 

The reporters besieged the house. Floyd had the 
agony of seeing himself, his wife, his child in every 
newspaper. The weeklies had colored prints of the 
beautiful Mrs. Garrison. “She might have stepped 
out of a picture,” “a living Greuze,” “the grace of a 
French Dame de Salon,” “the Art of Conversation 
lives again”—then the Russian players arrived. 

Julie did not get over the shock. Her nerves. 


VAL SINESTRA 127 

always abnormal, snapped; she sank into a state of 
melancholy. 

Floyd went up to her room one morning to tell 
her he wouldn’t be home to dinner; she was still in 
bed, crouching among the pillows. 

“Are you waiting for Hippolyte?” There was a 
touch of irony in his voice. 

“I’ve sent him away. I don’t want him any 
more.” Then she broke into sobs. 

Floyd was glad to get that “shame” out of the 
house. Julie was beginning to mope again; she 
needed fresh air; he would look for a camp in the 
Adirondacks for the summer. 

Julie brooded about her promise to Martin; the 
revulsion had set in as usual; she was again the 
mother, the conventional wife. She was afraid of 
his anger; she must keep away from him. All sorts 
of horrors took form in her diseased mind. 

The clock struck twelve. The boy had gone to* 
the Park with the nurse, a French girl, who spoke 
little English; they were late. She saw the child run 
over by a car, lying mangled under the wheels; she 
was in a paroxysm of fear, a distracted, neurasthenic 
woman. 

“Mamma, see what IVe got.” 

She caught the boy in her arms, passionately kiss¬ 
ing his eyes, his mouth, his hair, a handsome fellow, 
big for his age, his eyes gleaming with excitement. 
“Mamma, Mamma!” 


128 


VAL SINESTRA 


He took from Mademoiselle a beautiful, per¬ 
fectly equipped motor boat. 

Mademoiselle explained: “A big dark Monsieur 
^belhomme* gave it to Joseph.” He said he was his 
Uncle Martin. He taught him to float and sink it. 
She couldn’t get the child away, that’s why they were 
so late. The boy took the boat to pieces and put it 
together again, with great dexterity. He was un¬ 
commonly intelligent. 

“See, Mamma, this is the cabin.” 

He pressed a spring which opened a little door in 
the bottom of the boat; within lay a neatly folded 
paper; the handwriting was Martin’s. Mademoi¬ 
selle took the boy away, looking back furtively with 
her French comprehension at Madame. A few lines, 
begging, commanding her to come with the boy the 
following day. 

She knew she would go; she couldn’t stay away. 
He would hold Joseph in his arms; she would take 
his kisses from the boy’s lips; her eyes gleamed. She 
would go; It would end as it must. She was lost! 
Hopelessly lost! She went to the Park every day 
for a week, leaving the maid at home; the boy was 
always there sailing his boat. 

One day Martin took him up suddenly, pressed 
him In his arms, kissed him again and again. Julie 
looked on, the blood leaping into her face. They 
were her kisses. Then the boy put his arms around 
Martin, whispering, “I love you. Uncle Martin,” 
and fell asleep. Martin carried him to the car, 


VAL SINESTRA 


129 


motioned Julie to get in first, laid the child beside 
her, covered him up with the rug, then spoke in low 
tones of suppressed pain. 

“You committed a crime against me, Julie. That 
boy should have been mine I” 

All night and the next day, Julie had one of those 
terrible headaches; Floyd couldn’t bear her moans 
of pain. ... 

Dr. McClaren took off his coat and goloshes, 
stopping on the spiral staircase to admire the beau¬ 
tiful colored glass windows. He found Julie crouch¬ 
ing in a chair, her hands icy, her eyes roving 
restlessly. 

“My dear Madame, I’m sorry to see you in this 
nervous state. What is it, tell me ? I can’t help you 
unless I know I Is it your husband?” 

“No, he is too good.” 

“The boy, then?” 

“No.” 

“What is troubling you? Tell me.” 

“Day and night I have a terrible fear that some¬ 
thing dreadful is going to happen; I’ve had it often, 
but controlled it with a strong effort. Since the 
night of the fire it has come back with terrible force. 
I suffer tortures.” 

“When you go out, do you feel as if someone were 
following you to do you harm?” 

“Yes, yes,” she had her eyes fixed on the boat. It 
seemed to have a terrible fascination for her. 

The doctor took the boat from the table, turning 


130 


VAL SINESTRA 


it over in his hands. He was thoughtful—puzzled. 

“How perfectly they make these toys.” 

“Yes, it floats and sinks like a real motor boat.” 
The suggestion gave the doctor an idea. 

“Do you like the water?” 

“Oh, yes.” 

“Wouldn’t you like to take a long sea trip, to 
Europe, for instance?” 

“I would like it very much.” 

“I’ll speak to your husband about it.” 

'“No, no, I don’t want him.” 

*‘You want to go without him?” 

“Yes.” He leaned forward to catch her words 
which came in low gasps. “I want to—to slip away 
without anybody knowing. If you can persuade 
Floyd to let me go alone!—^you’ll find him at his 
club.” 

The doctor dropped off at the club that day and 
spoke to Floyd. He was sitting in the window gaz¬ 
ing idly at the green square opposite; what Floyd 
saw there were flames mounting higher and higher; 
wherever he went they followed him, scorching him; 
the world was one great funeral pyre; the flames 
were drawing him in. 

“Your wife is slipping back into the old condition 
of melancholia; we must prevent that.” 

“Doctor, I do all I can.” 

When he suggested a trip to Europe, Floyd gave 
a quick cry. 

“No! no! I couldn’t!” 


VAL SINESTRA 


131 


“I want her to go alone.” The same look of 
relief he had seen on Julie’s face. A pity; married 
so short a time. “I would like Miss Mary to go 
with her, but she is always so busy.” 

Floyd was on his feet. 

“She’ll go if I ask her; I’m sure she will.” 

13 

Miss Mary was at home in her little flat on the 
East Side of downtown. The cry of a newly born 
child came through the window. She smiled; her 
ears distinguished the sex. A girl fretted, wailed in 
a high-pitched, nagging tone; a boy fought, bel¬ 
lowed. Yes, this was a girl. Mary wondered how 
many men she would make miserable; that would 
depend on her face. What children men are! They 
marry a complexion, teeth, eyes. When they get at 
the woman, it’s too late. Some kick over the traces; 
most of them remain in harness from a sense of 
honor. The patience married people have with each 
other is wonderful, considering they are like dice 
thrown together by accident. 

She thought of the Garrisons, and drew two lines 
on a piece of paper—one a parallel—that stood for 
him; he thought in straight lines. The other, 
broken with angles—that was she. She wondered if 
he understood that mysterious side of his wife. She 
saw his eyes, always trying to look happy, his sensi¬ 
tive mouth trying to say pleasant things. A knock 


132 


VAL SINESTRA 


at the door startled her; there he stood surrounded 
by the bare-footed little devils of the neighborhood. 
They had piloted him up the dark stairs. A little 
gold-head slipped her hand in his. He bent down 
and kissed her dirty face; then he distributed all his 
small change amongst them and shut them out. 

“I’ve had a time finding you, Miss Mary. IVe 
never been in this neighborhood before.” 

“You should get acquainted with It; it’s more in¬ 
teresting than Park Avenue.” 

“Poverty Is terrible.” 

“No, it’s wonderful; it keeps people human. But 
here there Is no poverty; the people earn their 
living.” 

“Such as It Is.” He looked around the room. 
There was a cot in an alcove, a few chairs, a table, 
a shelf of books, and she smiling at him. 

“You’re not feeling well, Mr. Garrison.” 

“Oh! I’m well enough, but the springs are giving 
way.” 

“We must brace them up.” 

“Impossible, they are broken.” 

“Then we’ll have to get you new springs.” 

How young she was, how happy, and the bare 
room; here was—no ego that wants and wants— 
always taking, never giving—no expectations, no dis¬ 
appointment; Selflessness—that’s what kept her so 
buoyant. 

“Can I help you?” 

“Yes, if you will.” 


VAL SINESTRA 


133 


Then he told her of Julie’s relapse and the pre¬ 
scribed sea voyage. 

“Dr. McClaren wants her to go without me; he 
thinks It will be better for her. You know her so 
well; what Is your opinion?” 

“Your wife is organically healthy, but there are 
pathological conditions—a radical change might do 
her good.” 

She avoided his eyes; he was disappointed, but 
what else could she say? 

He bent a little nearer. 

“Miss Mary, If you will go with her, my mind 
would be at rest.” 

She sat silent a moment. 

“I’m sorry, but I cannot; I’ve pledged myself.” 

“You are engaged?” 

She laughed, clapping her hands like a child. 

“To be married, you mean? Oh I no I I shall 
never marry.” 

He laughed with her, like a boy. 

“Not if you fall terribly in love?” 

“Not even then!” Her eyes shone defiantly. 
“I’ve made a promise to myself, and I won’t be a 
deserter.” 

“A promise to yourself?” 

“Yes, don’t you, sometimes?” 

“No.” 

“You should, or life would become too accidental; 
we would be terribly tossed about.” 


134 


VAL SINESTRA 


“That’s what’s happening to me. I am looking 
for some occupation, but I don’t want to get into a 
treadmill. The people toil at business, pleasure— 
they do the same thing day after day, year after 
year. Life is a habit, a deadening monotony.” 

She drew up her knees, clasped her hands over 
them, bent forward. She was a quaint little thing; 
he had never known anyone like her. She spoke 
slowly, with difficulty; the words she had at her com¬ 
mand couldn’t adequately express her thoughts. 

“Life is a gift, not a habit. Every day we do the 
same things, but they must bring us something new in 
the doing. I’ve often thought, in the quiet of the 
sick room, what a privilege it is that I could 
sit there and help, when all the millions and 
billions of spirits are crowding the universe, and 
can’t get into life; I’m so glad I am put into a body 
—so happy, so thankful.” 

“I have never thought it a privilege to live, never 
thought of life as a gift.” 

“We depend too much on people and things to 
make us happy; we shouldn’t! Our happiness de¬ 
pends on no one but ourselves.” 

He knew what she meant. Julie had colored his 
life for a time; now it was grey. 

“I’ve never thought of it that way.” 

She came nearer with a touch of eagerness. 

“You will, won’t you?” 

He answered simply: 

“Yes, I will—” 


VAL SINESTRA 135 

Then she went to the table and took up one of a 
pile of opened letters. 

“I have pledged myself to something which will 
take all my time, all my strength, and that isn’t very 
much.” 

“No,” said Floyd. 

“Nursing is gradually becoming a money-making 
trade. During the War, women seeking adventure 
with little knowledge were extravagantly paid. Now 
money is no longer easy, but prices remain high. 
Only people of means can afford a trained nurse; 
there is a great need. You don’t know how sick 
people are neglected for want of care. I am trying 
to bring together earnest women of all classes; there 
are so many who want to do something, and don’t 
know how. I have appeals from all over the coun¬ 
try—piteous cries from women whose lives are 
empty; their school will be the bedside of the poor. 
You don’t know how quickly they learn, when their 
heart is in it. They pledge themselves to go wher¬ 
ever they are called, without regard to payment, like 
the nuns in the early days of Christianity. We are 
getting together a fund to pay their living. When 
they are not working they will study, we will have 
our own home, our own hospital. It has only been 
whispered, but you have no idea how easy it is to 
get money.” She showed him a letter signed by a 
well-known millionaire, who guaranteed a large sum. 
“There are many rich women eager to join us, who 
are seeking for something better, something nobler 


136 


VAL SINESTRA 


in their lives—^you don’t know—^you don’t knowl’’ 

No, he didn’t knowl 

“I feel very small, annoying you with my personal 
affairs when you are doing such great things.” He 
made his way to the door. Life was hopeless again. 

“Wait.” 

She was agitated, she couldn’t let him go like 
that; because—she loved him. She knew it now. A 
wave of gladness rushed through her. She had loved 
everybody all her life, but this love was like a won¬ 
derful magic touch—transporting her into some 
distant fairy world. She stood by the window; he 
saw the light on her face. 

“I think I can manage it. I want to go to London 
to the headquarters of the Salvation Army, to 
Zurich, to confer with the Red Cross Sisters; if your 
wife will go with me, it will not be neglecting my 
duty.” 

He grasped her hand. “Thanks, thanks. I’ll 
never forget this, never.” 

He saw the blood surging up to her temples, 
receding, leaving her white. Her eyes were longing, 
pleading; they sought his. She was beautiful; his 
heart gave a great bound. He stood looking, look¬ 
ing, stammered something, then turned and went 
out. 

The next few days he was kept busy about the 
cabins, rugs, passports, exchange. There was a feel¬ 
ing of warmth. He saw Mary standing there with 
that look in her face; he saw the woman for the first 


FJL SINESTRA 


137 


time. How wonderful she was I What a wife she 
would make I He hoped she wouldn’t marry. No 
man was good enough. He found himself thinking 
too much about her; then he went and bought some¬ 
thing costly for Julie. He refused to stay alone in 
the house with that French woman. He coaxed 
Bridget back to take care of the boy while his wife 
was away. He wondered why Julie didn’t write 
to her friends. 

“I don’t want anyone to know I am going.” 

“Not even Maud Dillon?” 

“They’ve moved away somewhere.” 

He hadn’t seen Tom about town as usual. How 
people disappear when their money is gone and no¬ 
body misses them. 

The car was waiting at the door. Julie, with a 
throb of pride, took the boy once more in her arms. 
The child was beautiful In his velvet suit and lace 
collar. 

“You won’t forget me, Joseph?” 

“No, Mother.” 

She placed her photograph on the table beside his 
little bed. 

“You will say good night to me? I will hear it. 
I will say good night to you; you will hear it.” 

“Yes, Mother.” She put the worn Hebrew prayer 
book In his hands. 

“You will read the prayer I taught you, every 
morning, every evening?” 

“Yes, Mother.” The boy’s eyes fixed on her face 


138 


VAL SINESTRA 


grew deeper; there was a psychic connection between 
them. She went back to her own childhood. She 
saw an old man, with that book in his hand, his face 
lit with religious fervor. 

“Julie, you will say the prayer I taught you, every 
morning, every evening?” 

“Yes, Grandfather.” She had kept her promise. 

The steamer sailed. Mary remained on deck to 
get a last glimpse of the solitary man standing on 
the wharf. Julie gave Floyd’s flowers to the steward 
to put on the dining table; there was a bouquet of 
exquisite red roses in her cabin. When they landed 
she wore one in her corsage. 

14 

The earth was thirsty; it poured down for three 
days, a slow soaking rain. Martin thought it would 
never stop. He walked along the lake in the Park 
regardless of his dripping hat. He was aching to 
see the boy again, to hear him say in his mother’s 
soft voice, “I love you. Uncle Martin.” What a 
mess he had made of his life; now he must steal 
what rightly belonged to him. He exulted In his 
power over Julie. Her illness was a fatality; It was 
her mother’s dead hand that had struck her daugh¬ 
ter down to save her from him. A shiver ran 
through him; why was he so superstitious? He 
didn’t believe in anything—^but sometimes a peculiar 
feeling took hold of him; there was another life far; 


VAL SINESTRA 


139 


back, a mystery—something intangible. He walked 
hours in the rain—fighting invisible forces, cursing 
the conditions of his life; it all resolved itself back 
to the same determination. She had promised to go 
with him; she must keep her word. 

Towards evening he rang the side-door bell at 
Hippolyte’s, hoping to get some news of her. The 
dark-skinned valet whisked off his coat, dried his 
dripping hair and neck, and preceded him into the 
Turkish room behind the shop. It was Hippolyte’s 
hour of rest before the night’s activity; he was lying 
on a divan, a picturesque figure, in a loose red silk 
robe. He waved Martin a welcome with his small 
white hand, the diamond, set in platinum on his 
finger, flashing rose color in the soft electric glow of 
the pervading red. 

^^Sapristi, Monsieur Steele. I was thinking of 
you.” 

Martin dropped down in a deep chair, stretched 
out his legs. The aroma of coffee and a whiff of per¬ 
fumed opium lent a sense of warmth to his chilled 
body. 

“Of me? Are you in trouble again?” 

His pipe-dream-visions changed into the cold 
reality of a check book; he had often helped the 
man out of his financial difficulties, he earned enor¬ 
mous sums, but the overhead expenses were fabu¬ 
lous. 

“The money is nothing; it comes in and goes out 
like the tide. I am at the end, the compass changes. 


140 


FAL SINESTRA 


We must in Life watch for the Warning; We must 
train our ear to detect the direction of the wind.’’ 

“You are superstitious?” 

“We all are, if we knew its true meaning. Super¬ 
stition is an intense sense of the Invisible.” 

Martin drank the strong Turkish coffee, puffing at 
his chibouk. The man was a “hairdresser,” but that 
didn’t matter; Martin had no sense of class. 

“My time in this business will soon be over. I 
was the only one for years when it was an ‘elite’ pro¬ 
fession. Now it is vulgarized like everything else. 
There is a clever Russian woman who is taking all 
my customers; do you know why? The husbands 
are jealous.” 

Martin laughed—he understood that; he would 
never allow this fascinating, purring Greek to maul 
his wife about. 

*^Mon ami, I know what you are thinking; you are 
wrong. They talk a great deal about the immorality 
of the American woman. It is not so—and it is a 
shame that it is not so. The French woman is 
honest; she have her husband, her lover; he has his 
wife, his mistress. Marriage is a success in France; 
they do not go about divorcing themselves. Here 
marriage is a failure, because every woman, young, 
middle age, old, talk of love!—it is only talk I —mon 
ami, talk! talk!—^but she do nothing! nothing! 
Why! because she is afraid; the fear is in her blood 
from the old times in America, the fear of the ‘Scar¬ 
let Letter.’ Oh! she can love, Mon Dieu! and if by 


VAL SINESTRA 


141 


accident there is just a little false step, she make a 
scene, her relatives make a scene, the press make a 
scene, everybody make a scene. Ohl your Haw¬ 
thorne did not know what harm he was doing to the 
future women of his country. The French authors 
knew better. La nouvelle Heloise—Camille, the 
heroines of de Maupassant, have set the women of 
France a glorious example.” 

Martin smiled. The fellow was clever, insolent. 

“Do you know how it will end?” 

“No, my imagination doesn’t take me any far¬ 
ther.” 

“Bah!—It is easy, she will go back to the pale 
face and the straight hair. You will see the little 
Puritan again. They have already forbid us the 
wine, the splendid opium, the tobacco, silk stockings, 
cosmetics, love—the whole nation will go to bed 
at nine o’clock—and their money will choke them.” 

Martin laughed, but the man was very serious; he 
put his hand on Martin’s shoulder. 

“Afow ami, you have been good to me. You know 
the Figaro has the soul of an artist; I am going to be 
good to you. I am going to tell you something you 
do not know; Mrs. Garrison will sail Saturday for 
England, without her husband.” 

15 

The Garrison “shanties,” near the river, were 
kept In as good condition as possible, but time and 


142 


VAL SINESTRA 


rats gnawed at their foundations. On one of these 
the passer could read, with some difficulty, the faded 
letters of an old sign, “Martin Steele and Son, 
Established 1830.” 

Since Mr. Steele’s death, the business had been 
carried on by a Mr. Waldbridge, who knew and 
followed the old conservative methods of the de¬ 
funct Steeles. Young Mr. Steele was expected to 
take his father’s place as head of the firm, but he 
stayed away, took what money he wanted, a ridicu¬ 
lously small amount for a man of his means, leaving 
the surplus In the business. Waldbridge had written 
several times asking him to come down and look 
over the books. Finally, he appeared. He was a 
mystery to Mr. Waldbridge; all the young business 
men of the day were eager speculators. He had 
expected new ideas, a business revolution; but no 
such things happened. He would sit about, watch 
closely the proceedings, but made no suggestions. 
His visits grew less and less frequent. 

“What does he do with himself?” thought Mr. 
Waldbridge. “He doesn’t gamble. He’s never 
seen at the races or baseball games. His name has 
never been connected with women. What kind of 
a man Is he?” 

Martin sat opposite him in the private office, 
flung his soft hat on the floor, crossed his long legs; 
his hair was disarranged, his face a yellow pallor; 
his clothes hung loosely, he was very thin. His 
“appearance” struck Mr. Waldbridge as very un- 


VAL SINESTRA 


143 


American—he himself being an Erie Road com¬ 
muter with all the proud consciousness of a one 
hundred per cent Nationalism. 

He spoke cautiously of the hard times and unsatis¬ 
factory business conditions. They had advanced 
money on large stocks of merchandise; there was 
nothing to do but to hold on. If they forced the 
sale, it would mean enormous losses. 

“Yes, I know,” interrupted Martin impatiently. 
“We couldn’t go on gorging money at that rate; 
we’d have to vomit it up sometime. No stomach 
could hold it; that’s what we’re doing now. Some peo¬ 
ple die suddenly from it; we’ll have a lingering end.” 

Waldbridge laughed uneasily, really a very un¬ 
pleasant young man. 

“I hope we will weather it. I’ve been discounting 
—and—” 

Martin interrupted again—discounting meant 
nothing to him—although he was flying some moral 
“kites” on his own account. 

“Do whatever you like; I’m out of it.” 

Waldbridge rose to his feet. 

“What do you mean?” 

“You can take my father’s name down.” 

“If you liquidate the business now, it will mean 
disaster.” 

“I have no interest In It. I am leaving New 
York.” 

Then Waldbridge broke down. It was terrible, a 
long-established, respected firm—^wreckage—^pure 


144 


VAL SINESTRA 


wreckage; that word seemed to have a fatal signifi¬ 
cance in Martin’s life. 

“Can I count on, say, ten thousand a year for ten 
years?” 

Julie was luxuriously inclined, because her heart 
had been empty. He would take her away from 
cities; they would live somewhere quietly in the 
country. 

Waldbridge smiled. “You can always have that 
and more if you want it.” 

Then Martin did a wonderful thing, so wonderful 
it left Waldbridge speechless, staring at him. Was 
the man mad? There was a taint of insanity In the 
family. 

Martin read his thoughts. 

“I’m thirty-two years old, and I know what I am 
doing. I want you to turn this business into a com¬ 
pany ; every man In It, from the lowest to the highest, 
must have his share. You, of course, will be the 
head of the firm. Get a good lawyer and do It 
legally. You’ll have your work, every mother’s son 
of you, to get the old hulk out of the mud; if you do, 
you’re entitled to the spoils.” 

“And the capital?” gasped Waldbridge. 

“I told you what I want, the rest I’ll leave in 
business; you can’t go on without It, can you?” 

“No.” 

“Then what’s the use of talking about It.” 

He held out his hand; Waldbridge grasped It, 
trying to stammer out his gratitude, but Martin was 


VAL SINESTRA 145 

gone. He dashed out of the place, threw himself 
into a taxi. 

“Uptown.” 

The New York chauffeur is accustomed to indefi¬ 
nite addresses. He looked back at the man with his 
hat pulled over his eyes, crouching in a corner. “A 
bloke who had lost his wad.” Then he wondered if 
it was a defaulter or a gunman—some of them 
looked like perfect gentlemen. He drove uptown, 
entered the Park. There he stopped. He was 
hungry; that guy in the corner could sleep all day. 

“Whereto?” 

Martin, pitched forward by the sudden jolt,, 
glared at him. 

“The Waldorf.” 

He sprang up the stairs three at a time, toa 
nervous to wait for the elevator, looked around the 
room, which was in disorder; his man couldn’t keep 
it tidy. Martin flung everything about. 

He would take nothing with him but a dress suit 
case. He caught sight in the corner of an old box 
covered with deerskin, tied together with a thick 
rope; he had taken it from the garret after his 
grandfather’s death, but had never opened it. He 
untwisted the knots, one after the other. It was a 
hard job. It hurt his fingers. He took out a pair of 
mountain boots, goat’s leather, with large nails in 
the soles. Martin looked down at his feet; they 
would fit him. He pulled out an old woollen shirt, 
a pair of corduroy trousers, a felt hat with a greea 


146 


VAL SINESTRA 


feather, a bright colored vest, and red handker¬ 
chiefs. There was a small chamois bag with 
strange coins, Swiss money—Martin examined them 
curiously; a pack of old letters, a photograph of a 
young boy and girl, a cow, and a high mountain at 
the back. That mountain fascinated him; he looked 
at it long, intensely. The raw boy and girl in Swiss 
dress were his grandparents. Martin thought of 
his mother. On the back of the card there was 
something printed which he made out with difficulty: 
^‘Val Sinestra.” He had never heard the name. He 
put everything back in the trunk and roped it; the 
idea came suddenly: he would take it with him, to 
Switzerland. 

16 

After Julie left, Floyd spent his evenings at 
the club; there were many strange to him. The 
membership had increased; it was still a mark of 
class to be seen lounging at the club window in the 
afternoon. 

He missed Martin. He was different from the 
others. When he raved against the world, he said 
things in bad taste, but often the bitter truth. With 
a sudden impulse, he wrote a few lines, asking him 
to lunch at the club the following day. He’d be 
furious when he heard Julie had sailed. He’d say, 
“You might have given me a chance to send her a 
few flowers.” Floyd smiled; yes, he liked Martin; 
more than that, he loved him; he was interwoven 
with the memories of his childhood, his youth. He 


VAL SINESTRA 


147 


wished that episode had not happened when Julie 
was ill, but she was unconscious of it. She had never 
in all that time mentioned his name. It was all in his 
own evil mind. He mentally asked pardon of 
Martin. The next morning at breakfast he had a 
feeling of agreeable expectancy. 

The boy was crying upstairs. Bridget couldn’t 
quiet him. 

“What’s the matter up there?” 

The child fretted for his mother. He had caught 
a cold, and had been kept in the house for some 
days. He was standing with his boat in his hands, 
sobbing piteously. Floyd pacified him by running 
the water into the bath which was sunken in the 
center of a tiled room. The boy handed his father 
the boat. 

Floyd turned it over in his hand. 

“A costly toy. Mamma is good to you.” 

“Mamma didn’t give it to me.” 

“Yes she did—Mamma gives you everything.” 

“She didn’t,” insisted the boy. “My Uncle Mar¬ 
tin bought it for me.” 

“Your Uncle Martin?” 

“Yes. He came every day to the Park, and then 
he put a note in the cabin, telling Mamma to come, 
and she came.” 

“Where is the cabin?” 

“You can’t find it, nobody but me.” 

The boy in great glee pressed the spring. 

“There’s no letter there I” 


148 


VAL SINEHTTl-A 


“OhI no I I gave it to Mamma; she read it and 
tore it up.” 

Floyd pushed the boy away. He was making a 
spy of his innocent child. Why didn’t Julie tell him? 

“Did Mamma meet Uncle Martin in the Park 
every day?” 

“No, not every day; she’d stay away sometimes 
because Uncle Martin scolded her and she’d cry. 
He loved me and petted me and said he was going 
to steal me away.” 

“But you wouldn’t leave me, would you, Joseph?” 

The boy meditated, and then told the truth. 

“Perhaps I would, Papa, if Mamma came along; 
but I don’t think she’d come because Uncle Martin 
scolded her too much. I was mad at him and said 
‘Uncle Martin, you’ll have to beg Mother’s pardon; 
I always do when I’m bad.’ Then Uncle Martin 
laughed and gave me such a long kiss and said, 
‘There, take that to Mamma and it will be all 
right.’ ” 

Floyd sat motionless with the boy in his arms. 
The little fellow’s eyes drooped, he slid down, pil¬ 
lowed his head on the big fur animal; those glassy 
eyes brought Floyd back to Mrs. Gonzola—why 
did she always watch Julie? He had never asked 
any questions about the unexpected call on the tele¬ 
phone. He had been deliriously happy; there was 
no room in his thoughts for the past. 

He bent over the child, noting the beautiful pow¬ 
erful body; neither he nor Julie had great physical 


VAL SINESTRA 


149 


strength. The boy would be a giant. Why did Mrs. 
Gonzola press such a quick marriage? Why did she 
keep him away so much during their short engage¬ 
ment? Why did she want Julie to get “used’* to 
the idea? As a child Julie liked Martin better; 
they’d disappear and he’d wander about looking for 
them, then go home disappointed. In his mad 
desire to get her, he had really done Martin an 
injustice; he should have waited. He didn’t do the 
square thing, because—he knew Martin would have 
won out I He bent lower over the boy—trying to 
find some clue In that Innocent face I The blood 
rushed to his head—he must have It out with Martin 
—he couldn’t go on with evil suspicions of his wife, 
his friend. Martin was no liar! He always told 
the brutal truth, even if It were against himself. 

The night brought sanity, consolation. Julie was 
foolish, but not criminal. Her religion wouldn’t let 
her do anything wrong. She went to Confession 
the day before her marriage; then he wondered— 
what did she really believe? She was by creed a 
Catholic, but she taught her boy his prayers In 
>Hebrew. 

He went early to the club and waited for Martin, 
who was late as usual. He looked at his watch, and 
idly took up the morning paper. 

His eye caught a headline. “The Aquitania sail¬ 
ing with a distinguished crowd on board.” 

What! the ship already back and sailing again? 
It was the usual summer rush; he knew most of the 


150 


VAL SINESTRA 


names. One riveted his gaze. He read it once, 
twice, three times; the paper dropped from his hand. 
He saw that name wherever he looked. Martin 
Steele had sailed on the Aquitania, 

It was ten days before the next steamer crowded 
with pleasure-seekers sailed for England. At the 
last moment Floyd came on board, too late to have 
his name in the passenger list. The only cabin left 
was on the lowest deck Inside. He went down, 
locked the door, unpacked his valise. Most of its 
space was taken up by a silver-mounted leather box 
—one would say an elegant toilette case. He 
opened it, took out a brace of shining pistols, exam¬ 
ined each one carefully, and put it back in the box. 
He had no definite plan, but when a man catches a 
thief in his house he shoots him. . . . 

17 

Martin arrived in London and put up at the 
Savoy; he noticed the crowds of fine young fellows 
and beautifully dressed women. 

“Is there anything unusual going on tonight?” 

“Yes,” said the polite young clerk, “a dinner and 
dance, in honor of Mrs. Garrison, an American 
lady.” 

Julie had been received by the Ambassador In 
London with great cordiality, on account of his old 
friendship for Jimmie Garrison. Mary wrote to 
Mr. Garrison: 


VAL SINESTRA 


151 


You have all reason to be well satisfied with your wife. We 
have done the right thing. She is enjoying herself. She looks 
like a young girl; the element which disturbed her has disap¬ 
peared. I find her so much more normal. 

The letter never reached Floyd. 

Martin stood in the doorway, his eyes fixed on 
Julie, who was surrounded by eager applicants, wait¬ 
ing their turn to dance with the “silver-haired 
beauty.” He took in the soft white neck, the 
dimpled arms, the small classic head, and that some¬ 
thing in the curve of her mouth and yielding smile— 
a triumphant sensuality. She swept past him. He 
could have touched her; he stood motionless. 

Mary was up early the next morning. She stood 
looking at Julie, in a deep sleep, her hair falling 
loose, enveloping her in a yell of unreality; then she 
shut the door softly and went into the salon. Wait¬ 
ing for her simple breakfast, she watched the passing 
busses and pedestrians In the street below. All 
large cities are the same, but different, like people; 
each individuality giving another form to the 
Image or material symbol. London has a distinct 
personality; nobility of character is unmistakably 
stamped upon It. 

The door opened; she turned and saw Martin. 
There was a momentary fear; then she was her quiet 
self again. Martin apologized for startling her. 
They measured each other; he saw an enemy. 

“Why are you so antagonistic to me?” 

“I’m never antagonistic without reason?” 


152 


VAL SINESTRA 


“What reason have I given you?” 

She looked keenly at him. He was well groomed 
—a clean-shaven, intense face, fascinating for some 
women; he repelled Mary. He has courage to show 
his mouth, she thought. 

“I have been sent here by Mrs. Garrison’s doctor; 
she has had a serious illness, you know that.” 

“Yes.” 

“She may at any time fall back into the same con¬ 
dition. I don’t want her to know you are here.” 

“Why?” 

There was a gleam of humor In his eyes; it 
angered her. Why should she play policy with him? 

“Because your presence may excite her. You are 
Mr. Garrison’s friend. I hope you will take my 
advice and not try to see her until she has finished 
her cure.” 

“What cure?” 

“She has been sent to a place in Switzerland called 
Val Sinestra, to drink arsenic water; you see I am 
keeping nothing from you.” 

“Very kind, I could easily find out. Val Sin¬ 
estra?” The name was familiar. 

She stood with her hand on the door-knob waiting 
for him to go. 

“Val Sinestra. I will write her.” 

“I have orders to withhold any communications 
which may excite her.” 

“Orders from her husband?” 


VAL SINESTRA 


153 


“No, from her doctor.” 

Her eyes shot fire at him.... 

He went back to his room, took out of his bag 
the bundle of old letters. Yes, that was the name, 
“Val Sinestra”; it was Destiny. 

There were two sides to Martin: a fiercely brutal 
realism, and a mysticism, instinctively concealed. As 
a boy, he would lie night after night, his eyes wide 
open; visions came and faded. It was always the 
same struggle with an unseen horror. He would 
awaken from a restless sleep, his face damp with 
tears. Those days he was very silent; his step¬ 
mother called them his sullen fits. As he grew older 
the visions vanished, but he had hours of deep 
abstraction, when reality slipped away from him. 

He sat in his room, the banal colored post-card 
of the two young peasants in his hand. There was 
a sudden consciousness of Liberation; the other self 
flew out and away through walls, over seas, over 
mountain peaks, soaring, soaring. He sat there for 
hours motionless. 

That evening the hotel clerk handed Miss Mary a 
note. It contained one line scrawled on half a sheet 
of paper. 

“Am leaving for Paris.” 

She was very glad, she wondered how far it had 
gone between those two. The responsibility was 
heavy. 


154 


VAL SINESTRA 


18 

At thirty-two Martin put his foot for the first 
time upon the soil of his ancestors. He roamed 
through Zurich; mounted its narrow cobble-stoned 
alley-ways, stood before an overhanging house read¬ 
ing the inscription. “This house is three hundred 
years old.” The lives of Zwingli, Pestalozzi became 
familiar. He read ravenously the history of the 
town. He stood on the border of its blue lake, 
encircled with snow mountains, “A Turquoise on a 
white bosom.” Something stirred in him, an inward 
convulsion, like the sudden eruption of an extinct 
crater; he broke into choking tearless sobs. Martin, 
unknown to himself, had the Swiss temperament—a 
people without the gift of self-expression, a deeply 
religious peasant race, silent before the mystic 
beauty of their mountains. Patriotism, that mis¬ 
understood word, with Its medieval clashing of 
swords, its uniforms. Its medals, has no relation to 
the Swiss adoration of the soil. He worships his 
valleys, his lakes, his waterfalls; they are living to 
him; he has a rage for the mountains; he leaves his 
country to seek wealth, but he rarely stays In the. 
stranger’s land; nostalgia drives him home; he must 
get back to the heights or die. Martin understood 
later why his grandfather went mad, why his father 
was wordless, why his mother died young. 

He tried his Swiss on the portier of the Bauer au 


VAL SINESTRA 


155 


lac Hotel, a man of all-round information, a ver¬ 
itable encyclopaedia of Switzerland, who could 
answer in the many languages of the cosmopolitan 
crowd, on its way to and from the mountains. 
Martin spoke a few words to him in his grand¬ 
father’s “lingo,” then said, “What am I speaking, 
anyhow?” 

“Your dialect is Romontsch or Romance. Your 
people came from the Grisons.” 

Then he explained how in the Middle Ages the 
Barons and Bishops had oppressed the people, and 
how they formed Leagues and fought for their free¬ 
dom. The Grisons took their name from the “Gray 
League,” a heroic band of peasants. 

Martin left Zurich by the early train the next 
morning; he sat the entire day gazing out of the 
window unconscious of the other passengers. A 
great moving picture shot before him—green val¬ 
leys, velvet hills, beautiful grazing animals, brooks 
changing into waterfalls, cataracts dashing down 
dark ravines, mountains growing higher, higher. At 
Tarasp he stayed over night to connect with the 
stage-coach at daybreak, and spent the evening sit¬ 
ting outside with the guides, who told him of the 
Val Sinestra, where the bandits used to live in caves, 
deep down in the ravines, and smuggled wine over 
the border. Then they spoke in lowered tones of 
the danger of mountain climbing—of death—of 
miracles they had seen above in the mist, with their 
own eyes. 


156 


VAL SINESTRA 


With the rising of the sun, seated beside the coach 
driver, Martin pierced the mountain passes; they 
stopped at a quaint hamlet. 

“We turn here,” said the old man. Then he 
wished “Godspeed,” cracked his whip, and went on. 
The coach pitched from side to side, on a perilously 
narrow road, but the horses were sure footed, and 
the driver, past seventy, had gone the same way for 
fifty years. 

Martin drew deep breaths of the fragrant air; he 
looked about him. The houses were a mixture of 
old Swiss and Italian architecture—the protruding 
windows and little balconies were covered with 
bright flowers; in the distance he caught sight of a 
picturesque church and cemetery. He entered an 
inn with a swinging sign; a rooster flapping its 
wings. The spotless floors sprinkled with sand, the 
small counter with shelves of bottles, the peasant 
girl in the costume of the Canton—it was all so 
familiar. She brought him a glass of wine and a 
pretzel, smiling at his jargon. He remarked on the 
absence of men. 

“They are ‘up there’ with the cows for the sum¬ 
mer.” She pointed to the green hills, gradually 
becoming steeper. “In those little huts on the top 
they make the cheese which they send all over the 
world. In the winter the sun doesn’t come up very 
high; it is like a blue twilight here. The storms 
howl, the snow falls for weeks. When the peasant 


VAL SINESTRA 


15r 

closes his eyes, the avalanche haunts him; if he. 
awakens in the morning he is grateful to God.” 
The girl went on chattering in her soft “Romance.” 
“The doctor goes down to Croire in the winter, but: 
our pastor stays with us. We have service here 
when the snow is too deep to walk to the chapel.” 
Then she.put down the glass she was polishing, and 
went joyously to the door to meet a tall man, a 
gigantic peasant, with masses of thick gray hair 
falling to his shoulder. He was long past seventy, 
but showed no signs of age. His voice rang out 
stentorian, clear. He was warm, wiping the per¬ 
spiration from his face with a large red handker¬ 
chief. He looked at Martin with keen penetrating 
eyes. Then said “Good morning.” 

“Oh, you speak English.” 

“Yes, we have many English visitors. Our 
children are taught it in the schools.” He looked 
again, seemingly puzzled. 

“What is your name ?” 

“Martin Steele. My people come from over 
here.” 

“Steele.” He shook his head. “I know none of 
that name.” 

Martin took from his pocket the bundle of old 
letters. One glance at them and the pastor’s arms 
were around him. 

“I wrote those letters to your grandfather. I 
am his brother. You are not an American, you are; 


158 


VAL SINESTRA 


a Swiss. Your name is not Steele, it is Staehll— 
Martin Staehli. The eldest of our family, for gen¬ 
erations back, was always Martin.” 

Martin felt a throb of joy; the blood of this fine 
old man with the head of a Roman ran in his veins. 
He had known only Aunt Priscilla, whom he 
wanted to burn. 

“Come, I am going to take you home with me.” 

Martin looked back at the Swiss “Madel.” In 
her red skirt and velvet bodice—an Image of 
national womanhood. 

They walked together down the hill, through the 
fields, past the little chapel and cemetery where they 
stopped. On the headstones he read again and 
again the name, “Martin Staehll.” He would 
bring his grandfather, his parents and lay them 
where they belonged, and he would lie there beside 
them. 

The pastor looked up at the great mountain, 
already casting a shadow over the valley; even In 
summer the day was short. The night came early 
and lingered. 

“.We are not all here. My son was the best guide 
in the Canton. He was lost in a snow-drift up 
there.” 

At the chalet with its black beams, centuries old, 
still strong, unyielding, he put his hand over Mar¬ 
tin’s head and blessed his entrance Into the home of 
Ills fathers. 

Martin stood in the long hall, vaguely conscious 


VAL SINESTRA 


159 


of atmosphere. A cuckoo sprang out of an old 
clock, chanting the hour; a spinning wheel with, 
threaded flax; new linen piled up; a living thing,, 
that wheel, it clothed the people. Carved chests, 
plaques of fruit, birds cut out by the natives, whea 
the country was Italian—everything In the room 
bearing witness,—a living story-teller of the llves^ 
and times of the vanished family. For the first 
time he felt the antique. He was swayed by a kind 
of psychic storm, like a rush of wind through the 
pass of a mountain. 

The pastor at the door called, “Angela, Angela.” 

A clear voice answered; she came down the path. 
—a girl of sixteen, with bits of hay in her flaxen 
hair, a child-like look of wonder In her blue eyes, 
and something more—of mystery. Martin thought 
of Joan of Arc In the orchard. 

On seeing Martin, she gave a quick Impulsive 
cry. The pastor put his arm around her. 

“What frightens you, Angela? It Is my brother 
Martin’s son from America.” 

Angela extended her hand, but her warm radi¬ 
ance had vanished. “Come out in the sun. It Is cold 
here.” 

She brought mugs of thick yellow milk, brown 
bread, delicious chipped beef, then went again inta 
the field and sat sorting out leaves from a basket. 
The pastor followed Martin’s gaze which lingered 
on the girl; she appealed to his artistic sense. 

“Angela Is a wonder child; she is not of our 


160 


VAL SINESTRA 


family. I found her one moonlit winter night in a 
snow-drift—a white angel. Since she came the vil¬ 
lage has prospered; the people are happy.” 

Martin smiled: probably the child of some unfor¬ 
tunate village girl. The pastor read his thoughts. 
“She belongs to no one; she is a miracle-child. You 
don’t believe in miracles?” 

“No.” 

“Then why are you here?” 

A simple question, difficult to answer. He 
couldn’t express the longing, which from childhood 
had made him restless, unhappy—a longing for 
some other space, some other element. He couldn’t 
explain his agitation, his unbearable joy, when he 
saw those scenes of which his grandfather had 
babbled in incoherent broken bits. He answered 
conventionally. 

“I wanted to see the place where my grandfather 
ivas born.” 

The pastor grew very serious. “It was not a 
case of idle curiosity you were drawn here; Angela 
knew you were coming. I used to tell her stories of 
your grandfather, Martin Staehli. He was queer; 
had a streak in him of evil. He got into a brawl 
with a guide and killed him; he had to leave the 
country.” 

“I never knew that,” said Martin. 

“That’s why he changed his name. I wrote to 
him often, but he seldom answered. Poor Martin, 
he got very rich.” 


VAL SINESTRA 161 

Martin laughed bitterly. That almost uncon¬ 
trollable instinct to destroy was his inheritance. 

“Angela said the third generation would return 
home. She has the gift of prophecy and of healing. 
She cures the people of their ills. The cattle run to 
her for her herbs; there is a magic in them. She 
brews them with Prayer, with Love.’’ 

Martin shook off a peculiar feeling; it was all 
superstitious nonsense, an insult to a man’s intelli¬ 
gence. He rose to go. 

“You will stay here with us?” 

“I’m sorry, but I must meet some friends* 
Where is the Val Sinestra Hotel?” 

“A little distance from here, on the other side of 
the hill beyond the hay-field.” 

Martin looked up at the straight stony walls of 
the big mountain. 

“I’m going to climb that mountain,” he said. 

The pastor smiled. “Perhaps, when you have 
had long practice; a man must train himself to 
climb.” 

The pastor watched him as he went with quick, 
uneven steps, stumbling here and there; he had no 
equilibrium. He’d never climb that mountain. 

Angela was also watching Martin. The pastor 
put his hand on her shoulder; she started. 

“He terrifies me; I am afraid of him.” She 
threw herself sobbing into the old man’s arms. 


162 


VAL SINESTRA 


19 

The pale women were coming up from the 
Springs, where they drank the arsenic water with 
a prayer for red corpuscles, strength, beauty. The 
Spring of Youth was in a cleft in the mountain—a 
dark mysterious fountain of gushing water unlit by 
the sun. 

Martin paced his room in the hotel. She was 
there, arrived two weeks before; the cure was 
nearly over. The madness came back now; he had 
been free of it for a few hours. It was like the 
relapse of a fever, violent—^vicious—raging. He 
had waited too long for her with stupid patience, 
and more stupid scruples. He heard Julie’s voice 
downstairs; he went to the window. She was stand¬ 
ing on the terrace talking to Miss Mary, who was 
leaving. She kissed Julie, jumped into the hotel 
omnibus, and drove oif. Julie stood a moment wav¬ 
ing her hand, then turned and entered the house. 
He heard her voice outside in the corridor speaking 
to the maid. The next door opened; her room 
adjoined his. 

The Sun-God sinking slowly behind the moun¬ 
tain scattered an orgy of color, Julie stepped out 
on her balcony. There was a low railing between 
them. He jumped over. 

“Julie!” 

She started with sudden fear, fled into the room. 


VAL SINESTRA 


163 


He followed, tried to say something, stood speech¬ 
less looking at her. She was wonderful. The 
force of the rich blood surging under the white skin 
swept him like a cyclone. There was a new inten¬ 
sity of life in her, quick flashes of passion in her 
eyes. She gave a low cry, threw her arms out 
trembling with uncontrollable joy. 

“YouI You!” She kissed him again and again. 
How she kissed him 1 then drew him outside. 

“Come! come! The sun is setting; it was too 
wonderful, I couldn’t bear it alone ” His eyes 
held hers. 

“I saw Miss Mary driving away.” 

“Yes, she has gone to Tarasp to visit an old 
patient;, she will be away until tomorrow after¬ 
noon.” 

A shadow fell; it was twilight. 

“You must go now.” 

He tried to hold her; she slipped out of his arms, 
shutting the long windows after her. He went back 
to his room. Those fleeting moments made him 
eager, desperate. The night was coming on; they 
were alone together at the end of the world. 

Miss Mary sitting in the train was troubled. She 
opened a telegram and read it again, “Meet me at 
Tarasp, Say nothing to my wife. Floyd Garrison.” 


164 


VAL SINESTRA 


20 

The little parlor of the hotel was filled with 
guests, assembled there, as was the custom, waiting 
for the dining-room doors to be opened. Martin, 
standing in the hall, a living symbol of electric 
force, created a sensation. He drew nearer and 
took in the crowd of pale women, young, nervous, 
with mysterious ills they could not, or would not, 
explain to their doctor, who, for the lack of a suit¬ 
able name, called the sickness “anaemia.” He 
looked them over with an experienced man’s com¬ 
pelling eyes. Some were very good looking, would 
have been beautiful under favorable conditions, but 
they were pale, with white lips and drawn features, 
like plants in a dark cellar pining for the sun. He 
became amusedly conscious of being the only man; 
he finally espied in the garden a rheumatic old fel¬ 
low, like the decayed trunk of a tree. He felt a 
battery of admiring glances leveled at him. He 
smiled, went to the foot of the staircase, waited for 
Julie. 

They went in to dinner together. The table in a 
deep window at the far end of the room was 
decorated tonight with an abundance of flowers. 
Martin played with his food; he was too excited to 
eat, but he was in wonderful spirits. Julie had 
never seen him like that; she had a feeling of trium- 


VAL SINESTRA 165 

phant elation. He was handsome; the other 
women were envying her. 

He laughingly remarked about the Eden with 
one Adam and many temptresses. 

“They are all so white, as if frozen in ice; the 
Sun-God should come and melt them.’’ He 
squeezed her hand under the table. “I am sorry 
for the ‘good’ women. They sacrifice themselves 
for an illusion—chastity.” 

She answered quickly. “The woman doesn’t 
think so. It is her religion. It may mean nothing 
to you, but for her it is a spiritual compensation.” 

“Oh, that’s Catholic,” laughed Martin. She 
shivered, drew her cape around her. 

Then he said, “Look how beautiful! The twilight 
is wonderful up here, light mixing with darkness 
like two souls. How the valley stretches out. Do 
you hear the rushing of waters? They are saying, 
‘Give me your body, I will heal you.’ Look! The 
mountain has a halo of red; it catches at my throat 
and chokes me. . . 

He was poetic, inspired. He raised his glass. 
“The wine goes through my veins like warm blood. 
If I were a doctor, I’d prescribe it for the ladies.” 

“Oh, oh,” laughed Julie, “forbidden fruit!” 

“And you?” There was a laughing question in 
his eyes. 

“I’m cured.” She drained the glass. 

After dinner they walked up and down the ter¬ 
race in front of the hotel, like old friends who had 


VAL SINESTRA 


;i66 

not met for some time and had much to say to each 
other. Gradually, the buzzing inside subsided, the 
pale creatures evaporated, lights were put out; one 
glimmered in each corridor. 

He drew Julie into a small summer house cov¬ 
ered with vines, at the end of the garden. The head 
waitress brought in wine. He thanked her—the 
Swiss know the hotel business. He slipped his arm 
under Julie’s cape. She resisted, but he held her 
close. She could hear his heart beating violently. 
Then it seemed as if It stood quite still, but it com¬ 
menced soon to hammer again against hers. 

“I must go In,” she whispered. “They close the 
house early.” She put her arms around his neck, 
raised her face to his. 

“How dark It Is.” 

“Yes. It’s always so before the moon comes up.” 
Then she slipped away. He caught her back. 

“Will you give me a signal?” It was a moment 
of suspense^ 

“Yes.” 

He looked up at her room; there was a candle 
burning In the window. 

“When you put out that light. I’ll come.” 

He reluctantly let her go. She went up the 
stairs; he saw her at her window. There was a 
white spirit also watching—the moon, that “OrbM 
Maiden,” chaste as the sleeping women within. 
Only those two were living; with them It was Flood- 
Tide. 


VAL SINESTRA 


167 


The light in Julie’s window went out. It was 
dark now, the moon ashamed had turned away her 
face. He started to go; his feet were lead; his 
body weighed them down. What ailed him? He 
shook himself like an angry beast. 

“Martin, don’t go.” 

The voice was low, but very clear; did it come 
from without or within? He didn’t know. 

“Martin, don’t commit this crime; don’t rob your 
friend. If you love the woman, do not destroy her; 
it is one throb more, one desire fulfilled—and then 
—the Price. ...” 

At* daybreak, the gardener, crawling about, 
found the stranger in the summer house, his head 
on the table, buried in his arms. He looked at the 
empty bottles. The wine of the Canton was strong; 
he shook the sleeping man, once, twice. Martin 
started up; where was he? ... . 

The hotel was empty. The guests were at the 
Springs. A bath of mineral effervescent water 
refreshed him, but that strange feeling came again 
like a dream which returns in fitful flashes, frag¬ 
ments of color impossible to blend. He paced the 
room; his eyes fell upon the deerskin trunk he had 
brought with him. He opened it, took out the 
corduroy trousers, boots, shirt—examined them 
critically. His valet had pronounced them “only 
fit for the ash can,” but that didn’t influence Mar¬ 
tin. He had them cleaned, folded, and put back 
into the box. He drew on the soft leather boots; 


168 


VAL SINESTRA 


they fitted him. The woollen shirt was light and 
warm. Looking at himself in the glass, he saw a 
man of the mountains—real, living. If a man buys 
a costume like that, it Is only a masquerade; this 
was his inheritance. 

The omnibus came back from the Springs; he 
went down and helped Julie out, seeking in her face 
the reproach he deserved. She smiled at him; how 
sweet of her! The fact was, when Julie reached 
her room the usual revulsion of feeling set In. She 
undressed quickly, dropping her clothing In a heap 
on the floor, blew out the candle. There was a dark 
form below—waiting—she stood breathless, her 
hand on the knob of the door. Then—she turned 
the key, crept to the window, pushed the bolt. She 
was securely locked in—she slipped Into bed. 

This morning she looked very girlish In a sport 
suit; the short skirt grazing the tops of very high 
tan leather boots. A soft hat, pulled down over one 
eye, gave her rosy face a touch of diablerie. She 
was all animation, joking about his Alpine costume, 
casting rougish glances at him; but he felt the 
undercurrent of emotion. He adored her. 

“We are going out for a day In the woods.” 

“You don’t ask, will I go.” 

“No—^but you will, won’t you?” 

There was pathos in his voice, longing; she 
couldn’t resist him. 

“Yes, but I must rest after the bath and dress 


VAL SINESTRA 169 

lightly. The morning here is cold; at noon it gets 
very warm.*’ 

He bent down and whispered, “Wear white like 
a bride.” 

During the interval of waiting, Martin studied a 
map of the Canton, tracing lines from one Dorf to 
another, short walking tours through the woods; 
there were plenty of little inns where they could 
rest. He paced the terrace impatiently. 

She came, all in white. A filmy scarf wound 
around her head, “a la turque,” accentuated the 
Oriental in her. She laughingly drew the long 
floating streamers across her face; her eyes shot fire 
through their soft transparency. 

A little wagon drove up; the peasant boy cracked 
his whip and they started off. The road was 
smooth, sunlit. They stopped at the Springs, where 
Julie made him drink the unsavory water “to clear 
his complexion.” They were in high spirits, laugh¬ 
ing at simple things, like two children. When they 
reached the chasm, the road became steep, narrow, 
with dark overhanging trees. Martin drew Julie 
close to him; a mysterious something hovered about 
them, intangible in its beauty, penetrating, won¬ 
derful. 

The driveway ended there. The descent Into the 
ravine must be finished on foot. The lad took a 
basket from the wagon and set it on the ground; 
then he cracked his whip and drove off. 


170 


VALSINESTRA 


21 

At the Savoy, Floyd heard many flattering things 
about his beautiful wife. He was silent, kept 
turning over the pages of the hotel register, finally 
found the name he was looking for—“Martin 
Steele, New York.’’ Then he wired Miss Mary 
and left at once for Switzerland, made quick con¬ 
nections, arriving at Tarasp toward evening. The 
stage-coach from Val SInestra was expected. He 
paced up and down before the hotel, his thoughts 
stinging like a swarm of bees. 

He had married well, he was a happy man—in 
the world’s vocabulary. 

Happy? A man who marries Beauty lives on a 
powder mine. The something which compels 
adoration makes a woman unfit for matrimony. A 
man can’t always be on his knees; that’s very well 
at night—but he becomes a ridiculous figure in the 
daylight. 

The coach shambled up the road. Mary was the 
only passenger; she nodded and smiled at him. He 
helped her out. 

“Were you surprised to get my telegram?” 

“Yes.” 

“You understood?” 

Mary waited. She wasn’t sure how much he 
knew. 


VAL SINESTRA 


171 


He spoke again excitedly. 

“Why did Dr. McClaren send my wife to Europe 
without me?” 

“Mrs. Garrison wanted it; there was no peace 
for her with that man so near.” 

He was watching her keenly. Did he think she 
was in collusion with his wife against him? Her 
face burned; she looked straight at him. 

“Mr. Garrison, it was an experiment and very 
successful. She is cured.” 

He was ashamed. She and the doctor knew his 
dishonor, and then—the world. His voice was hot 
—angry. 

“He followed her to London; they were together 
at the Savoy.” 

“No!” 

“He was there.” 

Then she told him of her encounter with Martin, 
and how he went away without seeing Julie. 

He had done them a terrible injustice? He was 
piteously grateful, held her hands, made a foolish 
attempt to kiss them. She grew very pale, and said, 
“Oh! Mr. Garrison!” He dropped them, very 
much embarrassed, looked at his watch. It was 
already ten o’clock; the evening had passed quickly, 
in spite of his misery. 

“You are tired. I have been inconsiderate.” 

“Oh no, but If you don’t mind. I’ll go to my 
room now.” 

He stood at the foot of the stairs looking after 


J72 


VAL SINESTRA 


her; she smiled back at him. She was glad she Had 
been able to bring him a hopeful message. 

They started off the next morning, in a comfort¬ 
able open carriage. Mary told him funny stories 
about the “blood-poor” women and their arsenic 
intoxication, showed him pretty twists in the splen¬ 
did road built by the Romans. They stopped at a 
little inn for a bite of cheese and a glass of beer. 
He planned a trip to Lugano and over the lake to 
Italy; he was in good spirits; the sense of relief 
acted like a strong stimulant. 

Mary was very loyal to Julie. 

“Mr. Garrison, I can assure you everything is all 
right. I have written to Rome at Mrs. Garrison’s 
request. After her cure she has plans to go with 
you to visit Father Cabello.” 

Floyd was very penitent. 

“I am glad to know that. Father Cabello has a 
strong influence over my wife. She has been too 
worldly; I hope he will bring her back to religion.”' 

On arriving at the hotel, Mary went at once to 
Julie’s room; it was in great disorder—everything 
scattered about, as if she had dressed very hur¬ 
riedly. Floyd downstairs was questioning the 
woman manager. 

“Madame had gone with Monsieur Steele; they 
had taken luncheon with them. Did Madame 
expect Monsieur Garrison?” 

“No. I wanted to surprise her. Do you know 
where they went?” 


VAL SINESTRA 


m 

“Yes. The boy who drove them is here.” 

“I would like to find them, if possible.” 

The woman went to order the wagon. 

Mary was pale, agitated. 

“Mr. Garrison, when I left your wife, Mr* 
Steele was not here.” 

He didn’t answer; he frightened her. 

“What are you going to do?” 

“Find her and bring her back.” 

“A storm is brewing,” said the woman. “The^r 
come up quickly and are terrible while they last.” 

The wagon drove up; he jumped in. Mary stood 
watching him till he was out of sight. The clouds 
gathered; the wind slunk Into its den. 

Floyd pushed back his hat, wiped the perspira¬ 
tion from his forehead; it was stifling. 

22 

The lovers stood together on a grassy plateau, 
the sun poured bright beams of light; below was a 
dense mist. 

“How wonderful,” said Martin. “Nature has. 
kept a sunny spot for us; we’ll stay here awhlle.”^ 
He drew his “lodin” cape around him, stretched 
himself out on the grass, looking up at the golden 
clouds surrounding the sun, looking below at the 
rapidly rising veil of gray; it was glorious. 

Julie took bread, fowl, wine out of the basket; 
they ate with their fingers and drank the wine out 
of the bottle. The sun glimmered red through the 
dark clouds. They were silent; then he spoke„ 


174 


VAL SINESTRA 


quietly at first, becoming gradually very much 
excited. 

“Why did you throw me over so heartlessly, 
after you promised me to prepare your mother? I 
knew it was useless; I had made all my arrange¬ 
ments— I had a cabin engaged on a French 
steamer—” 

Julie tried to justify herself, then began to cry 
Jiysterically; she had never broken faith with him. 
He couldn’t imagine what she’d been through all 
her life. The pressure of those two terrible re¬ 
ligions : her grandfather dragging her one way, her 
mother threatening her with eternal punishment. 

He tried to soothe her. 

“Don’t cry, Julie, I’ll make It up to you. You 
will be happy for the first time in your life.” 

“But Floyd—^he’s been so good—^you always 
came between us, pushing him away.” 

She slipped out of his arms. It was Floyd now 
coming between them. It wasn’t so easy to push him 
away. They had been friends so long. Floyd was 
the Innocent victim. Martin’s eyes roved restlessly 
—and that gray mist—rising!—rising! 

She waited for him to speak; then she went to 
him like a child, piteous, pathetic. 

“Martin, don’t be angry with me—^I love you— 
but the winter here is cold; the snow is like a wind¬ 
ing sheet—I couldn’t bear it!” 

She was wavering again; it brought him back, 
fiery, impatient— 


VAL SINESTRA 


175 


“We will go to Lugano, Italy, Spain; you will 
get your divorce, I will marry you.” 

“No! No!—there is no divorce in the Church. 
—I am afraid of Father Cabello.” 

Those fear thoughts—how they tore at her! 

He took her in his arms, kissed her until the 
color came back to her face, the warmth to her 
body. She was his absolutely; he could make her 
do what he wanted—^but—he mustn’t leave her. 

Then she gave a sudden cry. It was like an 
animal in pain. 

“What now? What now?” 

“My boy! You won’t let them take him away,, 
you must promise me that.” 

“Julie, look at me.” 

She raised her heavy lids and met his searching" 
glance; their souls questioned mutely, answered 
mutely. He drew her closer. 

“You shall have your boy. I promise you. Are 
you satisfied now?” 

“Yes—” 

She was tired, beaten to exhaustion by the force 
of rushing psychic waves, breaking against her weak 
will. Her head throbbed; she tore off her scarf; 
her hair dropped in a thick coil, down her back, 
like a writhing white snake; he wound It around his 
neck. 

“This was my punishment.” 

“No! No! Our love was not a crime. Yoa 
fought too hard against it. Nature put her hand on 


176 VAL SINESTRA 

your head and turned your hair white; it was her 
revenge.” 

Julie listened, fascinated; he was irresistible like 
that, his voice vibrating. Every nerve in her body 
responded. He stroked her forehead softly, the 
pain ceased. How happy she was! how happy. 

“You are a woman of the Orient; you are starv¬ 
ing for love; it is your life—^you cannot fight it; it 
is too strong for you—for me, come! come!” . . . 

These children of passion went down into the 
mist. 

He carried her along in his strong embrace, lift¬ 
ing her over the stones, her feet scarcely touching 
the ground; there was a wonderful sense of light¬ 
ness, as if she had thrown off a heavy load. The 
fog was cold; it dampened her face, her hair. They 
reached the bottom of the ravine; the clouds 
around them moved, disclosing a little wooden 
house, which had been hidden in the mist. Now it 
stood out clearly—a bit of beautiful old architec¬ 
ture. Julie shrank away. 

“It is a chapel; see, over the door, the cross. 
Take me home! take me home!” 

He laughed mockingly. 

“Nonsense, you must get over your religious 
superstition. The chapel will shelter us from the 
storm. Come, let us go in.” 

“No! No!—^not there!” 

She fled, he followed her; the mist dropped like 
a curtain between them, growing thicker, thicker. 


VAL SINESTRA 


177 


“Julie, where are you?” 

He heard her voice close to him. 

“Here.” 

He took her in his arms, wrapped his cape about 
her; she clung to him. He was deliriously happy; 
he held her In a frenzy of possession. 

“Julie, my love I my love I” 

The mist rose slowly, the red rays of the setting 
sun penetrated into the ravine, they were enveloped 
in flames. He could see her face now distinctly as 
she lay in his arms. 

The mist vanished like magic, and—there— 
there!—he saw—no! no!—It couldn’t be! 

Floyd’s voice rang out through the pass, struck 
the mountainside, and came back. 

“Julie!!” 

Martin held her with a fierce joy. He would 
stand now in the open for what he was. Julie was 
crying pitifully. He was very tender. He soothed 
her like a child. 

“Hush! Hush! It is better; there will be no 
more lies.” 

Floyd’s first Impulse was to drag her from Mar¬ 
tin’s arms, but he stood motionless listening to her 
sobs. Then she tore herself away, with an appeal¬ 
ing cry. “Floyd! Forgive me! Forgive me!” 

That set both the men on fire. Martin gave an 
angry growl. 

Again Floyd’s voice rang out. 


178 


VAL SINESTRA 


“Julie, you arc my wife. You must come with 

mcr 

A moment’s silence, the trees motionless, the 
clouds sullen, waiting; then the voice of Nature, so 
long suppressed, broke out in Julie. 

“No! No! I belong to Martin! I will not 
leave him! I cannot!” 

Martin stood a little above her, he put out his 
hand to draw her up, she smiled at him. God! her 

joy! 

Floyd raised his pistol, fired; Martin’s arm fell 
to his side. Now burning with a murderous rage, 
he sprang forward at closer range. 

“This time through the heart!” 

With a cry of horror, Julie wrested the pistol 
from his hand. It fell some distance away, went 
off, reverberating through the valley, arousing the 
people. The pastor heard it in the little chapel, 
where he had gone at the approach of the storm. 
He came holding up his lantern, seeking the cause. 
A fierce gust of wind blew through the ravine, 
whirling. In a dervish-like dance of fiendish fury. 

Then the demon in Martin went out to meet the 
tearing forces of nature. 

“Fool! Fool! You cannot hold her! She was 
never yours! never! She is mine by Nature’s 
unalterable law!” 

Floyd’s agonized tones rose above the wind. 

“Julie! Julie! I want to save you from a ter- 


VAL SINESTRA 179 

rible fate! look at him! Can’t you see! He is 
mad! mad!” 

That word struck Martin a fatal blow. He put 
his hand to his head; there was a look in his eyes 
like a stricken beast pleading for mercy. Floyd 
never forgot it. 

“No! No I—not that—” 

He turned and fled, stumbling over rocks, 
through bushes, a terrible horror pursuing him, 
stretching out its giant claws to entangle him 
Mad! Yes, he was mad! It was his inheritance! 
The storm raged, crashes of thunder, flashes of 
lightning; an enormous tree sprang into the air, its 
great quivering limbs cleft in twain. The pines 
wailed, muttered, waved their long arms; he stag¬ 
gered on, fighting the elements without, within. He 
was conscious of climbing; his strength grew; fear 
made him superhuman. He heard a voice behind 
him calling. Mad! Mad! He went on crashing 
through obstacles, going up! up—there was no 
measurement of time, of distance. He stood on the 
first peak of the great mountain. It rose before 
him, a straight wall of stone; a deep chasm yawned 
between. He threw out his arms with agonizing 
longing. 

“Up there! Up to the top!” 

There was no trace of mist. The air was cold, 
the sky studded with brilliant planets; their light 
searched his soul. He saw clearly the jungle within 
him, the tearing beasts of passion, the wreckage, 


180 


VAL SINESTRA 


the futility, the dark future 1 He raised his head to 
that glory once more; then with a cry of despair he 
went over the precipice. 


23 

The pastor followed Martin to the foot of the 
mountain. He could go no further; the ground 
was slippery, dangerous. He retraced his steps 
with a heavy heart. He was filled with righteous 
anger. One of his name had dishonored a 
woman; he must make restitution. He found Julie 
in a frenzy of fear, calling again and again, “Mar¬ 
tin! Martini” She stood like a white spirit, erect 
in the storm. The lightning rent the clouds; then 
the floods came down. 

They carried her to the shelter of the chapel. 
The little building, centuries old, was originally a 
storehouse for contraband, a refuge for bandits 
who hid themselves from the gendarmes, among 
the wine barrels, in the caves beneath. When the 
Church took it, they brought a beautiful altar from 
Italy, and artists who painted religious figures on 
the walls. The wine caves were partitioned into 
cells, where pious monks prayed and rubbed their 
rheumatic limbs. Finally, this holy place, a victim 
of skeptical times, was used as a theatre, where 
allegorical plays dealing with the political and re¬ 
ligious history of the country were performed. 


VAL SINESTRA 


181, 


When Julie became conscious of the dimly lif 
altar, with its faded velvet and gold lace, its figure 
of the Virgin in painted wood, she stood transfixed; 
she saw herself on the day of her confirmation, her 
mother putting around her neck a gold chain and 
cross, she heard her own voice repeating the Con¬ 
fession of Faith, the organ pealing the Hymn of 
Praise, the lights, the Presence I With a cry of 
anguish she fell on her knees. 

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, have pity!” 

Then a deep, tender voice filled the chapel—the 
voice of Father Cabello, 


24 

Father Cabello was a mystic. Brought up 
within the walls of a monastery, dedicated to 
Heaven from his birth, he saw the will of God in 
every event of his kaleidoscopic existence. He had 
travelled much, studied much, with the one ever- 
dominating ambition, which slowly but Inevitably 
came to Its fulfillment. The Gonzola family, with 
money and Influence, had In those two generations 
been a great Catholic Influence in America. Father 
Cabello was the power behind It. He Had sus¬ 
tained Mrs. Gonzola, that devout, pious woman. In 
her awful struggles with Joseph Abravanel. He 
loved Julie, held himself responsible for her soul. 
He would save her, as he had saved her mother. 


182 


VAL SINESTRA 


He had been ill in Rome, stricken down with 
fever, caught in the unsanitary quarters, trying to 
improve the deplorable condition of the people; he 
went down under a hopeless task. Many a night, 
seated at his luxurious table, with its rich appoint¬ 
ments, its costly wines, a terrible thought would 
come again and again: Was the poverty of its 
children a curse laid upon the Holy City, for the 
generations of intolerance—^its auto-da-fe, its cru¬ 
sades? He tried to drive those haunting spirits 
away; he was not the Judge, only an insignificant 
part of an Indestructible Institution, a symbol, the 
moulded image of an Iron Will. Delirium con¬ 
sumed him. He was for weeks near death; then 
came very slowly back to life. Lying on his flow¬ 
ered terrace, the great panorama of Rome before 
him, he thought of Julie. She had written to him 
often after he left America, but her letters grew 
less frequent. Before his sickness he had received 
a short note from Mary, telling of Julie’s second 
collapse and her trip to Switzerland: the arsenic 
waters at the Val Sinestra had helped her wonder¬ 
fully; the cure would end July twenty-second. 
There was apparently nothing to cause uneasiness 
In the letter. 

Father Cabello was ostensibly of Jesuit origin, 
but he possessed a much older secret Inheritance 
from the time when his ancestors were noble 
Spanish-Maranos, deeply versed in deception and 


VAL SINESTRA 


183 


the Talmud. He scented the trail of disaster. 
Why had not Julie written to him herself? Why 
had she travelled to Europe without her husband, 
her child? Why? Why? 

The doctors advised him to go on a visit to 
America, where the climate would drive the malaria 
out of his system. He refused; his strength was 
not equal to so long a journey. Then they advised 
Disentis in Switzerland—one of the few strong¬ 
holds left to the Church. He was haunted with the 
thought of Julie. He would go to the Val Sinestra 
and see for himself. 

Disentis—its crumbling piles of stone, monas¬ 
teries of the seventh century, its stillness, its health¬ 
giving air, the wonderful healing waters, gushing 
from the earth Into natural rock basins, hollowed 
out by Nature’s hand, the frugal fare, the rising at 
the first glimpse of dawn, the pervading sweetness 
of the bells, prayer, which had a new sanctity, as 
if nearer the Divine Fount—thete he gained new 
spiritual inspiration, new physical strength—there 
during the summer months the Benedictine Friars 
welcome their brothers from all corners of the 
world. Father Cabello clasped hands with monks 
of many orders. The Trappists appealed strongly 
to his affection—^barefooted, humble, rich in knowl¬ 
edge ; he never tired listening to their many colored 
experiences. He was eagerly questioned about 
America, “the land of unbounded possibilities.” 


184 


VAL SINESTRA 


He had a store of humorous stories, which were 
greeted with low chuckles and spasmodic move¬ 
ments of the diaphragm. 

JValking with the Father Superior one day, in 
the surrounding woods, that benign forest which 
protects the children of God from the avalanche. 
Father Cabello asked about Val Sinestra and how 
he could get there. 

“Easily from here; my carriage is at your dis¬ 
posal—a drive at leisure through the mountains, a 
most beautiful and interesting trip. Near the Val 
Sinestra, there is an ancient bit of architecture, a 
deserted chapel; it is now the property of a poor 
community headed by a great man, Pastor Staehli; 
the Church should buy it back.” 

“I will see to it,” said Father Cabello. 

The next day he started out; there was no trace 
of anger in the blue sky, but the driver pointed to 
a small watery cloud low on the horizon. 

“We are going to have a storm; would it not be 
better to wait until it Is over?” said the Superior. 

Father Cabello hesitated, then he answered: 

“I want to be at Val Sinestra before the twenty- 
second. I am being pushed by a strong impulse, 
which has some mysterious significance —^ call for 
help from one I love.” 

“Then go, in God’s name.” 

That drive through the mountains was a sacra¬ 
ment. Father Cabello bowed before a great God, 
clothed in a sacerdotal vestment of Nature. 


VAL SINESTRA 185 

“There is the chapel,** said the driver. It was 
distinctly visible in the valley below. 

Suddenly a shot rang out. 

“What was that?” 

The driver shook his head. It seemed to the 
excited imagination of the priest like a discharge 
signalling a great battle; then the fury of the In¬ 
visible broke, the man whipped up his horses, and 
dashed down the incline toward the chapel. . . . 

It is wonderful in the mountains after such an 
outbreak of electric force; the Prince of Light 
marches majestically in the Heavens showering 
gifts of prismatic gold; a Master Chemist, he will 
create again from the storm wreckage; the stricken 
trees will sink into the bosom of the earth and 
moulder there, generating in Nature’s crucible new 
germs of Life, and the little dark pine-children will 
be born. 


25 

Floyd paced restlessly outside the chapel, listen¬ 
ing to Julie’s sobs and the voice of the priest, 
tender, persuasive, stern, threatening. Once before 
he had pleaded with Joseph Abravanel; now a 
second time he is pleading with his wife! His 
wife? No! No! Lies! Lies! She was never 
his; she belonged to Martin by the unalterable law 
of Nature. They would go on saying that. He 


186 


VAL SINESTRA 


would always see them with their arms around each 
other. He had been cheated! cheated! 

A sharp bolt of light pierced the dark valley, 
shone on the battered cross above the chapel, 
glanced off, lit up the silver trimmings of the pistol 
on the ground. He picked it up. The voices in the 
chapel rose and fell. 

“You must go back to your husband.” 

“I will not. I belong to Martin; I will never 
leave him. I cannot.” Her voice was sharp with 
agony. Floyd shuddered; why should she be tor¬ 
tured like that? Why? If he were dead they 
could live. He was dead, burnt to cinders. The 
tongues of flame in his father’s workshop had crept 
into his body, consumed it; there was nothing left 
but the shell—easy enough to put an end to that 
clay image!—“Shoot its head off!” 

The pastor wrested the pistol from the hand of 
the distraught man, led him through a trail to the 
chalet, and left him with Angela. He was quiet 
now; he lay back in a chair with closed eyes. She 
sat and watched him, passing her cool hand over 
his hot forehead; the lamp shed a soft glow over 
the pale face, the well-shaped head, the regular fea¬ 
tures. A splendid human species, those Americans 
—a youthful race, a type ennobled by climate, good 
food, and labor that develops character. She 
thought of the cretins of her own beautiful land, of 
the degenerating races of Europe. This man was 
like Dresden china, fine, very fine; but there were 


VAL SINESTRA 


187 


deep lines that made the face look old; the chisel 
of Life had cut deeply into him. She bent over him* 

“Come with me.” 

He looked blankly into her soft radiant eyes. 
Who was she? 

She took him up the narrow stairs into a small 
room with bare white walls, a little cot, a bunch of 
Alpine roses on a table by the window. 

“Will you try to sleep?” 

“No! No!” 

She led him to the balcony, a nest under the over¬ 
hanging roof. 

“Sit here; you will sleep.” 

She put him in a reclining chair and left him. 

The moon shone on his flushed face; the valley 
was filled with soft shadows; the mountain raised a 
luminous head. The air penetrated his agonized 
body. An hour passed; a white figure stood beside; 
him. 

“Come in I The night air In the mountains is too^ 
strong for strangers.” 

He saw her through a mist, his eyes dim wlthi 
overpowering sleep. He fell on the cot—she cov¬ 
ered him with a warm blanket. . . . 

The pastor called the guides together; they came 
with their ropes and axes. He spoke tersely; they 
were used to action, not words. 

“A man had gone up the mountain In the storm.’^ 

Then he gave a low whistle. There was a pant¬ 
ing, a breaking through the bushes. A dog threw 


m 


VAL SINESTRA 


ihimself upon the pastor, who bent over him, strok¬ 
ing his thick coat with a magnetic touch. He gave 
him Martin’s mantle, the dog tore at it, dropped it. 
The pastor whispered, ‘‘Find him.” .With a low 
whine the animal plunged into the thicket, the 
guides followed, their strong throats propelling 
sounds that echoed to the unsealed heights. 


26 

The hotd was in an uproar. The pale women, 
excited by the storm, could not be kept in their 
rooms; they crowded the corridors, uttering plain¬ 
tive cries. The quick flashes of lightning revealed 
little groups huddled together; one poor thing quite 
lost her control. She betrayed her terror in a 
strangely interesting manner: rushed to the long 
door opening onto the balcony, baring her white 
bosom to the storm. She was wonderful as she 
stood there, her face rapturous, like a woman lift¬ 
ing herself to the embrace of her lover. 

The storm passed. The pale women fluttered in 
the sun, holding up their bloodless hands to its 
-warmth, chattering, laughing over their “thrilling” 
experience. 

Mary was terribly worried about her friends. 
The carriage had not come back. The proprietress 


VAL SINESTRA 


189 


thought the party had been driven through the 
short cut to the pastor’s chalet. 

‘‘But the shotl” said Mary. The woman looked 
grave. It was not hunting time. 

When the carriage drove up with Julie and 
Father Cabello, Mary knew something terrible had 
happened. She grew very pale, but she had been 
trained to ask no questions. Julie was quiet, with 
wide-open horror-filled eyes. Father Cabello took 
Mary’s hand and spoke gravely. 

“There has been an accident. Mr. Steele has 
been lost in the storm; they are looking for him.” 
She caught her breath. 

“Mr. Garrison?” 

The priest pierced her with his understanding 
eyes. 

“Mr. Garrison is safe; he and his wife will leave 
here by the early train tomorrow. Will you see to 
everything?” 

“Yes,^’ said Mary. 

Then his voice hardened. 

“No matter what happens, they must go; nothing 
can prevent that.” 

Julie let herself be undressed and fell into a 
lethargy. Mary tried several times to awaken her; 
she would open her eyes and fall again into that 
trance which was not sleep. 

The pastor came over to the hotel to see Father 
Cabello, They talked long into the night, o^ 


190 


VAL SINESTRA 


Floyd, Julie, of the fight against Martin. The 
pastor repeated again: 

“He is one of ours; he has done wrong. He 
must make restitution.” 

Father Cabello was troubled. Julie had shown 
unexpected strength. He must find a way to bring 
her back to the Church, to submission. 

The next morning, early, Mary was surprised to 
find Julie up and dressed. The hotel was closing 
that day. The trunks had to be locked and taken 
down. Julie watched her moving about. 

“If I could get out of this room—it is horrible.” 

A hotel room before the departure of its occu¬ 
pant, with its torn newspapers, remnants of food, 
bedclothes thrown in a heap—there is nothing more 
desolate, more inexpressibly forlorn. 

They went down to an empty room on the 
ground floor, misnamed the “children’s playroom.” 
The pale women were unmarried or childless. 
Julie moved continually from one window to an¬ 
other; when she saw Father Cabello and Floyd 
coming up the walk, she shrank into a corner, a ter¬ 
rified hunted thing. 

Father Cabello found Floyd very quiet; what¬ 
ever may have been his feelings, he had them under 
perfect control. He answered the priest’s questions 
in as few words as possible, and listened without 
comment to his sophistical justification of Julie. 

“Perhaps your wife was not all to blame.” 
“Perhaps not ” 


VAL SINESTRA 


191 


“You know Julie’s nature—she is easily influ¬ 
enced.” 

“Yes, I know.” 

“The man must have persecuted her.” 

“Perhaps he did.” 

“I don’t wish to blame you, but knowing what 
has happened and the desperate character of the 
man, was it right to let your wife travel alone?” 

“Perhaps it was not right. But it didn’t occur 
to me.” 

When they entered the room, Floyd stood quietly 
at the door. The priest went to Julie and took her 
hand. 

“Julie, you must ask your husband to forgive 
you.” 

The answer came again: 

“I will not. I belong to Martin; I will never 
leave him!” 

The priest’s wrath was terrible. He stormed, 
threatened, pleaded—she must go with her hus¬ 
band ; there must be no scandal. She must go home 
to her child. 

Floyd was white to the lips—Mary couldn’t bear 
it. She rushed out of the room. . . . 

The pastor came up the terrace; Father Cabello 
went out to meet him and brought him in. He 
spoke quietly, with deep feeling. 

“The guides who were seeking Martin Steele 
have come down from the mountain.” 

“Have they found him?” 


192 


VAL SINESTRA 


“Yes. He is dead.” 

There was a silence. It was Floyd this time who 
cried with a rush of repentant agony; 

“Martin I I killed him I I am a murderer!” 

“No! he himself was responsible. He met the 
fate of the rash. A man must know the precipices 
and how to avoid them before he tries to climb.” 

Again came the cry from Floyd: 

“I shot to kill! I shot to kill!” 

“The guides followed his traces up the moun¬ 
tain; there were signs that told a human thing had 
passed. He must have gone over at the first 
plateau. They went down as far as they dared. 
There were broken branches; the violence of the 
fall tore up a young tree with its roots. Come with 
me, I will show you where he struck the trail. 
There was madness upon him, his senses wandered, 
the inevitable happened.” 

They stood in the quiet woods and looked up at 
the wall of stone where Martin had said, “I will 
climb that mountain.” 

The pastor put his arm around Floyd. 

“My son, you have been through more than your 
share of trouble; don’t burden yourself with morbid 
self accusations. He was your friend; he betrayed 
you. He made the only reparation—death. Try 
to think kindly of him. Under natural conditions 
he would have been a brave son of the soil. He 
was robbed of his birthright, , , ,” 


VAL SINESTRA 


193 


Julie shed no tears. The old fear was upon her; 
the Punishment had come again in the shape of 
Death, and he had paid. The priest worked upon 
this superstitious dread; it was the only way to sub¬ 
due her. “God had punished her for her crime 
against her husband. He would punish her fur¬ 
ther; she must go home, she must go back to her 
religion, God had struck Martin with the whip of 
retribution. He would bring it down upon her 
shoulders if she did not repent. A great calamity 
would happen to her child.” 

She was cowed, humble, on her knees before him 
begging for mercy. He confessed her, and gave 
her absolution. 

Mr. and Mrs. Garrison left by the afternoon 
train; they were a pitiable sight, these two unhappy 
children wondering why the world was so dark, the 
pain so hard to bear. The priest spoke the last 
words. 

“My children, you are going home. You will be 
happy again, if you do not nourish your misfortune. 
God has given us the magic of memory, and a still 
greater blessing, the gift of forgetting.” 

They bowed their heads to his blessing. The 
train left the station, wending its way in and out of 
the tunnels. 

“When I watch those undulations,” said the 
pastor to Father Cabello, “I think of a serpent 
crawling into the great centers of vice, carrying 


194 


VAL SINESTRA 


with him the modern Adams, the curious Eves, 
who will eat copiously of the fruit of the Tree of 
Knowledge.” 

The priest smiled. The simile appealed to his ^ 
mind trained in Biblical metaphors. 

“I have no fears for our young couple; the New 
World moulds its people. The practical life of 
which they are an integral part will make their road 
clear to them. I have lived long in America. It is 
a land of proof, not belief; of practical results and 
a kind of idealism which is expressed in action. 
There is no time for dreams; inspiration feeds only 
on quick realization. A land of no secrets, where 
publicity methods are applied alike to business, 
science, literature, religion. That which cannot be 
exploited is called ‘high-brow’—^but there is a sav¬ 
ing humor in it all. America is a great country.” 

The pastor answered with just a touch of good- 
anatured satire. 

“If there are no secrets, how Is it that the Church 
has prospered there?” 

The priest smiled enigmatically. 

“The Church adapts itself. . . . 

“I am going back to Rome, with a mind at rest. 
We have held together the thread of two lives 
which threatened to snap, nay, three lives: there is 
a boy whose career must be watched closely. Other 
forces are at work—race impulses; they must be 
eradicated.” 

“Is that possible?” 


VAL SINESTRA 


195 


“Yes, but difficult. I shall bring the boy to 
Rome; there, all other influences will be neutral¬ 
ized.” 

The pastor offered his hospitality for the night, 
which was gratefully accepted. It had been a tur¬ 
bulent time ending happily. The priest was in a 
frame of mind harmonizing with the beauty of 
approaching twilight. They sat outside the chalet. 
The pastor filled long glasses with the wine of the 
Canton, which expands the Soul. They sat there, 
looking into the Val Sinestra, until the sun scattered 
rubies and the moon threw down a silver veil. 

They talked of the future of religion and the 
wave of unbelief sweeping over the world. 

“When I meet a man like you,” said the priest, 
“I regret the loss to the Church. Protestantism 
was at best a frail child; it cannot survive without 
support. Why should it not come back? We 
would kill the fatted calf to celebrate the return of 
our Prodigal Son.” 

The pastor saved the situation with a fine sense 
of humor. 

“My friend, we are not father and son: we are 
brothers, prodigal children of the great original 
God of the Hebrews.” 

The priest’s eyes gleamed. 

“Then why not a family reunion? It has been 
my life’s dream—all sects united in the spacious 
bosom of the true Faith.” 

The pastor nodded in silent approval. Then 


196 


VAL SINESTRA 


Luther would come into his own. At this same 
moment, far away in the East, the muezzin was 
chanting from the minarets, calling the people to 
prayer. “There is but one God, and Mohammed 
is his Prophet,” and at this same time, millions of 
humans, prostrate before Buddha, were praying to 
attain the perfection of the Soul—Nirvana; and 
the “chosen people” once again in Jerusalem were 
praising the “only” God, who had led them out of / 
exile into the land of their fathers. The priest and 
the pastor would soon solve their problem—they 
were both approaching with silent rapid steps, the 
solution of the Great Mystery. 

The next morning Father Cabello thanked the 
pastor again for his good offices. He was a prac¬ 
tical man, and in the light of day, dreams evap¬ 
orate. He did not speak of buying the chapel; he 
wanted to go in peace. 


27 

Angela sat at the wheel, her quick skilful fingers 
spinning the yellow thread. The girl, with her un¬ 
erring instinct of the unseen, felt the air weighing 
heavily. The atmosphere of the house was charged 
with sadness; unhappy spirits had passed through, 
leaving something of their sorrow, their passions. 
The anguish of Floyd still lingering in her little 
room kept her awake at night. The dead man was 


VAL SINESTRA 


197 


always before her—his uneven gait, the passionate 
face, the glittering eyes. A great longing went out 
from her to that rebellious soul, beating so long 
against bars, a prisoner in his own body. . . . 

The pastor had gone over to the hotel for 
Martin’s one valise and the little deerskin box. He 
spoke to the woman of the house; she remembered 
her father telling of a Staehli who went “across 
seas” and never came back. The crooked gardener, 
shuffling about, chimed in. 

“Yes, I knew Martin Staehli. He had a quarrel 
with a guide about a woman, and shot him dead. 
He was hot blooded.” 

“The man lost on the mountain was his grand¬ 
son,” said the pastor. 

“Strange things happen in a lifetime,” mumbled 
the gardener. “Now who would believe, to look 
at me, that I was once the champion wrestler of the 
village 1” ... 

The next morning at sunrise the pastor knocked 
at Angela’s door. 

“Angela, we are going *up there’ today.” 

During the summer, when they were pasturing 
the cattle, she and the pastor spent many a happy 
time with the peasant boys and girls who had gone 
up in June, clinging gradually from one plateau to 
another until they reached the top, where they 
would stay until the weather drove them down. 

Angela sprang joyfully out of bed and went to 
fetch her basket; on the way up she would look for 


198 


VAL SINESTRA 


herbs. It was wonderful how she spied the rare 
plants hid away under the rocks and at the bottom 
of brooks. They went slowly, at first, Angela tim¬ 
ing her steps to the pastor’s, who grasped his stick, 
gaining strength as he climbed. Not far behind, a 
guide followed, carrying the belongings of the un¬ 
fortunate man. In Switzerland every waterfall, 
river, flower, bush, and tree has its legendary Spirit. 
Miracle stories come down by word of mouth. The 
old grandmother sitting outside the chalet at night, 
a pipe between her toothless gums, her needle run¬ 
ning a race with her tongue, tells the children of the 
wonders of the mountains: 

“In the old days, when a mountaineer had been 
lost on the heights, the peasants would go from 
peak to peak calling his name. Where the echo 
repeated they stopped, and would throw down 
articles of clothing and a large cheese from the milk 
of the missing man’s herd, to keep his spirit from 
cold and starvation. They tell of a peasant who 
was lost. They let down his dog on a rope. The 
faithful animal, whining in low dog tones, eagerly 
scented the way. When they drew up the rope it 
was bitten through. The dog had found the body 
of his master and would not leave him. Whenever 
there is a thick mist the peasant is seen, his dog 
beside him, on the edge of the chasm, pointing with 
a warning finger to the precipice.” . . . 

The merry band of dairy workers welcomed the 
pastor with shrill cries and clarion notes from 


VAL SINESTRA 


199 


Alpine horns. It was a modest community; each 
one owned his little herd. There were many huts, 
where the milk is set in earthen bowls, yielding 
cream, butter, cheese, their only wealth. The pas¬ 
tor drew a herdsman aside and spoke to him in low 
tones. A stillness fell on the merry band. The 
man led them across the field to a deep pool fed by 
mountain torrents; at a narrow end was a rough 
rustic bridge, which they crossed in single file, and 
came into a thick pine grove. Farther on, the clear¬ 
ing was carpeted with roses, anemones, violets. 
They walked carefully, not to crush them; then they 
climbed up a steep rock to a cow-hut on the top. 

Angela gave a low cry. A man lay on a bed of 
hay, his arm in a rough splinter, his face the wax of 
death. She dropped down beside him, listened to 
his heart, tried to raise his closed lids. 

“He is dead.” 

“I think not,” answered the peasant. “I have 
seen many such cases of suspended animation, from 
the shock of a heavy fall.” 

Then he told them how Martin had been saved 
from going to the bottom of the precipice by being 
caught in a crevice of the rocks. He was found 
tightly wedged in, covered by the stones that had 
rolled down. The dog had scented the place where 
he lay. It would be a miracle if he lived. 

The pastor patted the head of the animal, who 
would now and again put his paw very gently on the 
man’s chest, as if seeking for heart-beats. Then 


200 


VAL SINESTRA 


he’d lick the white face, wag his tail, and stretch 
himself out again. 

“I won’t give up hope,” said the pastor, “until 
the dog howls and slinks away.” 

Angela was moving about. She made a wood 
fire on the rock outside, filled a large iron pot with 
water, and stirred in her herbs with which she 
would bathe his bruised body. They emitted a 
pungent, agreeable perfume. The pastor watched 
her as she stood, a bright figure against the dark 
pine background: “a blessed child.” 

Angela passed the night in a hut with the dairy 
maids. She was intensely awake, concentrating her 
entire spiritual power. She ceased to be a human 
thing; she became a Thought, a disembodied Will. 
She arose from the bed where the peasant girls 
were sleeping, three together, their arms entwined, 
their hair sweeping the ground, their white arms 
and bosoms like ivory in the night light—a great 
picture of future mothers, bearing in their bodies 
the next generation. She stepped out into the air, 
listened to the walking of the waters, the talking 
of the trees; she heard panting. Something warm 
pressed against her. The dog jumped on her, 
whining. What was the message? Was it death? 
She followed the excited animal over the stones, 
over the pool, into the hut. The man was lying as 
she had left him, but there was something in his 
face that made her heart leap. She took the limp 
form in her arms. The breath of her young body, 


VAL SINESTRA 


201 


the life that was in the sap of the trees, the minerals 
of the springs, the healing balsam of the air, all the 
natural force in her, and more, the dynamic power 
of the spirit, went out to him. Her hands, tingling 
with electricity, moved tensely over his chest, his 
limbs; the dog watched, helping with his mute soul. 
Suddenly the curtains over the heavy eyes quivered, 
opened, then dropped again; her fingers on his pulse 
felt slow intermittent throbs. She had dragged him 
from the depths—he hovered for weeks between 
Life and the Beyond, coming back slowly, but the 
mind remained inert. The summer was unusually 
mild; they put him outside on a soft bed of boughs, 
where he lay day and night in silence with the dog 
beside him, his eyes following Angela as she moved 
about. She taught him to walk again, guiding his 
steps carefully. 

The pastor came weekly to see him, spoke to 
him, but he didn’t answer. Angela grew anxious. 

“Does he think?” 

“I believe not,” said the pastor. “It is a kind of 
aphasia, which time will cure.” 

Angela wondered if he could distinguish sounds 
—the chirping of the birds, the bark of the 
dog, the music of the herd. The peasants would 
tell in lowered voices of a shadow of a man stand¬ 
ing under the pines, so still, the chamois would come 
closer, closer, looking at him with their soft, be¬ 
seeching eyes; then they’d scamper away . . . 

August!—It was bleak. The man sat on the 


202 


VAL SINESTRA 


trunk of a tree; he was without the thrill of life* 

The pastor spoke to him. 

“Do you want anything?” 

“No.” 

“Do you know me?” 

A flash passed over the face. 

“Yes.” 

The pastor’s voice grew stern. 

“You will go down tomorrow with the herdsmen* 
You are the peasant Staehli: they are your people;, 
you are one of them. You have been all your 
life in exile; now you are on your natural soil. The 
voice of race will awaken in you—^you will find 
yourself.” 

The man listened, agonized with the intensity of 
concentration; the words cut like sharp stones into 
him. 

“You understand, you are the peasant Staehli.” 

The answer came back mechanically: 

“I am the peasant Staehli.” 

The next day, Staehli the peasant went down 
with the herds from plateau to plateau, lingering 
while the weather favored. Late in the summer 
they reached the valley. 


28 


Winter in that little hidden-away corner of the 
world, snow without beginning, without end, 


VAL SINESTRA 


20S 


scarcity of food, dread of the avalanche. The. 
peasant is a fatalist, accepting the inevitable with, 
silence, with awe. “God is good; He sends sum¬ 
mer as a rich reward.” 

The pastor shared the hard lot of his parish.. 
The Devil was always there in the shape of 
“schnaaps,” driving the simple souls to madness, 
making cretins of their children. The pastor 
fought the “Evil One” with holy ire like his great 
ancestor Martin Luther. Every night he would 
take his lantern and tramp over to the Inn, sit with, 
“his children,” drink with them moderately, see the 
liquor locked up, put the key in his pocket, and go 
his way. Many a morning he found the cupboard 
tampered with, pretending not to see the lock had 
been repaired. Now Martin went with him, sitting 
silent, answering laconically. 

The pastor gave him much physical labor—- 
washed out roads to remake, wood to cut and draw. 
There was a landslide; a part of the village was 
under snow. Martin worked with pick and shovel 
to dig out the people, carrying the women and 
children in his arms, his strength growing as the 
hardiest collapsed. When it was too cold for the 
old man, Martin went alone to the Inn to lock up. 

One night, walking home, the sky like velvet 
studded with clustered diamonds, the mysterious 
blue light on the snow, the silence, the penetrating; 
beauty, threw a spell over him. He wandered till 
the unseen sun shot up faint rays, turning the white 


204 


VAL SINESTRA 


world into faded rose; then memory stirred in him. 
Angela saw him tracing with a piece of charcoal on 
a board. She put slips of paper and pencil in his 
way; he scribbled on them, threw them down, for¬ 
got them. They were confused lines crossing, 
recrossing, impressionist shapes of mountains, and 
always the faint outlines of a woman’s head. She 
put them carefully in a box he would remember 
some day. She saw quick flashes in his eyes, sparks 
blazing up, dying out. 

He sat outside the chalet, hammering nails into 
the soles of the mountain boots he had made for 
himself. The Staehlis had always learnt a trade— 
they were shoemakers, tanners, blacksmiths, herd¬ 
ers, sons of toil and of the soil. The pastor stood 
watching him. 

“The snow has melted in the valley, the sky is 
dear. We will wander forth—to the south first, 
and back on foot when the trees blossom.” 

They started off in the early morning. An old 
peasant, leaning somewhat heavily on his solid staff 
of hickory wood, a young peasant, silent, unsmiling. 
Angela put paper and crayon in his knapsack. 

“Bring me pictures; they tell more than words.” 

They tramped through valleys, over hills, jump¬ 
ing on hay-wagons, climbing into stage-coaches, 
riding the sure-footed mountain pony. The pastor 
watched Martin. There were blood streaks in his 
eyes; his face was like a wax mask. 


VAL SINESTRA 


205 


They came to lovely Lugano, the Fatima in 
Switzerland’s harem of beauties, warm, passionate 
—the soft Italian patois, Italian air, Italian skies. 

“Over there across the lake is Milan, Rome, the 
Raphael frescoes.” 

Martin’s eyes gleamed; then he shook his head. 
The pastor sighed—would he ever wake up ? 

Geneva—intellectual, proud of its men of genius. 
They walked through Rousseau’s Island of Exile. 

“He was greatly gifted,” said the pastor, “but 
the victim of his own sensuality.” 

“We are all that,” said Martin. Then the veil 
of melancholy dropped again. 

“When we are conscious of it, the cure is there. 
Rousseau was the mind of his generation; he might 
have been its soul, but he never found himself.” 

Einsiedeln—with its monasteries a thousand 
years old, its few sad Benedictine hermits poring 
over their ancient manuscripts, restoring the eaten- 
away remnants, kept with pious reverence hidden 
in old chests. Einsiedeln—its pilgrims, its Life 
Eternal, hypnotized, under the spell of religion. 

Arosa—the bleak mountains, the hopeless sick 
wrapped in blankets on open balconies. Martin 
shivered. 

“Let us go.” 

Zurich again, with its historical surroundings. 
The pastor told the story of Charlemagne who, 
finding a toad sitting in the nest of a beautiful 
serpent, drove it out and killed it with one blow of 


206 


VAL SINESTRA 


his heavy stick. “There was a banquet at the 
Palace that night; the guards were terrified at the 
sight of a white spotted snake who crawled into the 
hall, wound herself up on the legs of a chair, and 
dropped a priceless jewel into the goblet of wine 
which the monarch held to his lips, giving him the 
magic gift of compelling the love of all who set eyes 
on him.” 

“A toad in her nest,” repeated Martin. . . . 

Two months in the cities, then the country beau¬ 
tiful—the trees heavy with white blossoms, bearing 
embryonic fruit. Toward evening the air grew 
heavy with the day’s perfume; the night was warm 
in the valley. Martin moved about restlessly. 

“I cannot sleep; let us go into the woods.” 

They walked through dark trails, lit faintly by 
stars shining through the trees; then he broke a 
long silence, speaking of himself for the first time, 
slowly, timidly. 

“The air goes through me; it is sweeping away 
that terrible fear. If I could be free of the horror 
that tears at me, the horror of—madness.” 

The pastor spoke eagerly. 

“Fight it, Martin, drive it out. It is an illusion, 
an evil thought that does not exist. Martin, your 
soul is in prison, beating its wings against the bars 
of your own obstinacy; let it soar.” 

“I cannot. I am choked with wild impulses, 
driving me to distraction. I am mad I I tell you, 
mad I” 


VAL SINESTRA 


207 


“Martini there is a madness which destroys, and 
a madness that reveals; such madness has been the 
salvation of the world. Come, sit down with me, 
here in this forest, where once lived and suffered 
our great ancestor, our patron Saint, Mad Martin.’^ 

“Mad Martin?” 

Then he told in picturesque English, lapsing 
unconsciously into his own musical Romansch, the 
legend of Mad Martin. 

“He was one of a lawless band, the youngest 
bandit* of them all—a beautiful youth with the 
grace of a wild stag, without fear or sense of right, 
prowling about with his carbine, robbing, killing, 
consorting with lewd women. One night, a night 
like this in the woods* where holiness dwelt, some¬ 
thing stirred within him—a voice clear, beautiful, 
said wonderful things which gave his soul wings.” 

“Yes! that happens sometimes, a voice from 
within,” said Martin. 

“He left the band, made his way to the church 
and begged to be taken in. He was rarely gifted; 
the monks saw in him the white fervor of the saint. 
The Lord had changed the murderous rage of the 
robber into the divine madness of the fanatic. He 
went to Einsiedeln and there, it was said, heard the 
voice of God, who commanded him to become a 
monk. As the story goes, the Lord, to try his 
piety, put in his way a last temptation. He was 
walking in the woods, reading his prayers, when he 
suddenly came upon a beautiful vicious thing who 


208 


VAL SINESTRA 


had loved him in his bandit days; she put her arms 
around him, her mouth to his. He forgot Heaven. 
He tried to tear himself away. Her kisses held 
him. She lured him to her cabin and in the intoxi¬ 
cation of passion, he took no count of time.” 

“Her kisses held him,” repeated Martin. 

“She made a plan that would bind him to her 
forever; she plied him with wine until his senses 
fled, stripped him naked, crowned him with a 
wreath of red poppies, left him dancing and singing 
ribald songs, a young Bacchus in the woods; then 
she called the priests to witness his degradation. 
They believed her not; the young Divine was deep 
in the under cells, fasting, praying, purifying his 
body, preparing for his ordination. She mocked 
at them. 

“ Tools! He is no priest, he is Mad Martin. 
He cannot change; his blood still riots in him, call¬ 
ing for wine, for women. If I lie, burn me at the 
stake 1’ 

“Mad Martin in the woods heard the angry 
voices of the people, the mocking gibes of the 
woman, and realized his degradation. He fled to 
the cabin, locked himself in, fell on his knees, and 
prayed for help. The chanting of priests, the cries 
of the people grew louder—their axes were break¬ 
ing down the door. The poor sinner raised his 
arms to Heaven, with a cry, in which his battered, 
stricken soul took joyful flight. When the enraged 
people burst into the cabin, they found it empty. 


VAL SINESTRA 


209 


They searched the cells of the monastery; there was 
no trace of him. The Father Superior, a holy man 
of years, was calm. 

“ ‘Wait, he will not fail us.’ 

“The day of consecration came; among the 
young priests stood a tall figure in white, ready to 
take his vows. He was pale and faint from fasting, 
but his voice was like a bell sounding from the dis¬ 
tance. As he left the altar there was a bright light 
on his face. The people followed him on their 
knees. He put out his hands, blessed them, and the 
cripples threw away their crutches and the sick were 
well. Then he blessed Einsiedeln and rriade it a 
holy place for pilgrims in the ages to come. He 
blessed the village under the mountain, where he 
was born, sinned, and atoned, and prophesied its 
future peace, prosperity. Then he disappeared be¬ 
fore their eyes, but he has been kept alive in our 
hearts and memory. Every three years, the people 
of our village give in the little chapel ‘The Miracle 
of Saint Martin.’ ” 

There was a long silence. Martin sat, his face 
buried In his hands. The pastor spoke again. 

“Martin! Free yourself of this horror; let 
Hope in. Life is knocking at your door with gifts 
of fulfillment!” 

Martin struggled with the torrent of feeling 
rushing through him; then the dry eyes grew moist, 
the tears came. The fever of hate, the passion of 
Love, the terrible impulse of self destruction, a 


210 


VAL SINESTRA 


devil tempting in the night, the thought of life wth 
reason gone—all the dangers of an overwrought 
mind were washed away in those tears. He 
dropped down, broken, helpless, on the new sweet 
hay in a little hut near by; the cool air swept over 
him. A bird’s plaintive call startled the silence— 
an unforgettable night of spiritual revelation. 
Peace. . . . 

It was dawn when he awoke. He looked about 
for the Pastor, found him lying in a corner, his 
mantle wrapped about him. Martin looked long at 
the noble snow-crowned head, then stole softly out, 
came upon a clear pool hidden in the trees—we 
meet them unexpectedly in Switzerland, startling us 
with their limpid loveliness. 

There was a flash of Glory!—the Sun! He felt 
a sense of elation, of new birth. The sky turned 
purple, pink, gold; the color ecstasy crept into his 
blood. Color! the life of the world! Color clam¬ 
ored in his brain for expression, for air; he was 
obsessed with the madness that reveals, the divine 
madness of the artist. 

The pastor stood beside him. The sun was 
climbing. Martin pointed to a ball of fire down 
deep in the lake. 

“I’m going to bring it up,” he said. He slipped 
off his clothes and dived in, floating, twisting him¬ 
self like a dolphin, spouting water in the air; then 
he ran along the green borders, his body gleaming 


VAL SINESTRA 211 

In the sun. The pastor thought of the legend of 
the Water Gods. 

They went slowly on foot toward home, stopping 
at the little Dorfs, where the peasants greeted them 
with acclamations. “A fine lad! a Staehli, every 
inch of him.” Martin returned their gripping 
handshakes, tossed down their schnaaps, gave them 
points on the disinfection of barns and the care of 
cows, danced with the maids on the green, kissed 
them; they pelted him with flowers. 

At the door of the chalet, Angela stood waiting. 
He put a portfolio In her hands, bits of color he had 
caught on the way. Her eyes were fixed on his face. 
This was not the Martin she had known: it was like 
the same face reflected In clear water, etherealized 
by the refraction of light. She heard him in the 
fields, his strong voice filling the distance with 
melody. She looked up at the great mountain. An 
unfortunate man called Martin Steele lay there, 
dead. 


29 

The Garrisons came back to their home on Park 
Avenue. With Mary’s help and his own will, 
Floyd learnt to diagnose Julie’s actions as “psychic 
Impulses.” She herself couldn’t do wrong; she 
fought against a “subconscious tendency.” From 
her girlhood it had always been “like that”; this 
was the bridge over which he could pass to recon- 


212 


VAL SINESTRA 


ciliation. He had every reason to be satisfied with 
his wife. She was in correspondence with Father 
Cabello, whose influence revealed itself in her piety. 
She became very devout, Heavenly love drove out 
the earthly in her. She attended daily mass; the 
big-eyed woman with her beautiful boy were well 
known at the Cathedral. Floyd noticed after com¬ 
ing home from service a rapt expression on her 
face; she went about with upturned eyes like St. 
Cecilia. He had a vision of a black-robed nun. 
He spoke to Dr. McClaren. 

“I am afraid my wife is developing a religious 
complex.” 

“I think not,” answered the doctor. “I imagine 
before it gets so far, that insatiable emotional 
craving of hers will find a new stimulus.” 

There was something wrong with Floyd. His 
intense desire to forget the “unpleasant” episode in 
Switzerland had overstrained his nerves. They 
reacted in a strange manner. He’d leave his home 
in the morning with the intention of going to sec 
th Colonel, and would find himself wandering aim¬ 
lessly in quite a different direction. He’d walk for 
hours through parts of the city unknown to him; 
he saw strange faces, strange places, another world. 
He lounged about where the ships came in. The 
immigrants had an irresistible fascination. He 
watched them, listened to their unintelligible jar¬ 
gon. A dark-eyed Madonna with a shawl on her 
head, a child at her breast, was not strange to him. 


VAL SINESTRA 


213 


He knew her: she was Julie’s sister. A bearded old 
man, carrying on his bent shoulders the tragedy of 
his race, looked at him with the eyes of Joseph 
Abravanel. A straight tall peasant with bundles, 
bewildered by the city, was Martin’s grandfather. 
It was a kind of mental phantasmagoria of those 
who had worked a sinister influence In his life. He 
couldn’t get rid of them; he saw their Past their 
Present, their Future, the struggles, the agony, the 
hopelessness. He was flung backward, forward 
with them. Must he go on living with them all his 
life? A horror seized him. 

“Taxi, sir, take you anywhere—” 

A tall chauffeur with dark goggles took him by 
the arm and lifted him into the cab. 

“Where to, sir?” 

Floyd bent forward, he knew that voice. 

“Tom Dillon 1” 

“Mr. Garrison. You won’t say anything.” 

Floyd grasped his hand with quick sympathy and 
drew him into the car. Tom choked at first, but 
gradually recovering himself, told his story. 

“I married Maudy, because I couldn’t get her 
any other way. Oh, she was a kisser. She’d go 
as far as the fence, but she wouldn’t jump it. We 
were coming home from a dance up the road. I 
tried it on. ‘Tom,’ she said, ‘if you want me, you’ll 
have to marry me.’ I married her. I didn’t take 
it seriously. I thought this way: It’s as broad as 
it’s long. When I get enough, there’s Reno. She 


214 


VAL SINESTRA 


flung the dough like Hell; I couldn’t see any value 
for it, only a heap of rags. Anyhow, a man can 
get liquor and women—” 

“Yes, I know.” 

Tom shifted uneasily in his seat. 

“When you don’t earn, money melts. My credit 
kept me going for a time. Then I had to tell her. 
I was sure she’d leave me. I’m only good to hand 
out. She told me that lots of times.” 

“She left you?” 

Tom’s eyes snapped; he was radiant with pride. 

“She didn’t. She had an auction sale. All her 
friends were there; they wouldn’t miss it. She sold 
everything, even her engagement ring, and paid 
every cent I owed. By God! she did.” There was 
a choked sob. “I had to do something to get even, 
didn’t I?” 

“Yes, Tom.” Floyd was beginning to respect 
him. 

“I went to my friends, but they wanted solid men 
In their business, and I couldn’t blame ’em. I 
walked about like a crazy man, couldn’t get a job. 
She kept enough to furnish a band-box in the 
Bronx. She does all the work. You must see her. 
She’s as pretty as a peach, and the place Is as neat 
as wax.” 

“But how did you come to this, Tom?” 

“She sent me to sell the car; that hurt me. I 
went and sat around the garage with the boys. I 


VAL SINESTRA 


215 


was down and out; they had money to burn. They 
said, ‘Sell? nothing doing—a car like yours is 
capital.’ Well, I didn’t sell; I commenced going 
out nights. I was ashamed to be seen, but I got 
over that. Then I risked it in the daytime; now I 
flaunt my shame. I tell you! it’s a rotten world— 
when I had money it was a stunt to do my own 
repairs. When I took the crowd out joy riding, I 
was a good sport, but to ‘hack’ for a living is com¬ 
mon. I’m done with that swell bunch. Maudy says 
they’re beneath us.” 

Then he sat looking at Floyd, his eyes begging. 

“Tom, you’ve solved your problem, I’m proud 
of you.” 

Tom heaved a sigh of relief and got back to 
business. 

“Now I suppose you want to get home.” 

“I don’t know,” said Floyd, wearily. 

Tom gave him a sharp look. 

“What are you doing down here anyhow, seeing 
some capitalist off?” 

“No, watching poor wretches come in. I’ve been 
through a lot, and I haven’t quite got my bearings.” 

Tom asked no questions, but he told Maudy 
afterwards he was sure Garrison “had some 
trouble with that crazy wife of his.” 

“You’d better come outside with me and get 
some fresh air—^you don’t mind me taking a fare 
if it comes my way. I’ve got another car; there’s 


216 


VAL SINESTRA 


a guy in with me. I dope it out this way: he gets 
twenty-five percent of the takings, I get the rest and 
pay for the damn gas. The car’s on instalment; 
when we pay it off we’ll go it equal. Fair enough, 
isn’t it?” 

“Yes, it is.” 

Tom had coarsened; the veneer of wealth was 
gone. Floyd liked him that way. 

“You’ve grown stouter, Tom; you’re the picture 
of health.” 

Tom, slapping his chest complacently, came in 
collision with an enormous truck. He let out a 
stream of oaths, which paralyzed the physically in¬ 
ferior opponent. The poor devil cranked fran¬ 
tically and got out of his way. 

“It was your fault, Tom, not his.” 

“Of course it was, but that alien wouldn’t dare 
open his mouth to a free-born American. If he 
tried it on, they’d wipe him out.” 

Tom spoke with a rich Irish inherited brogue, 
which all his college education hadn’t eradicated. 

“We were talking about me, weren’t we?” 

“Yes.” 

“I’ve gained thirty pounds, I eat like a hog, and 
I’m for Prohibition every time. At first I worried 
myself to bones about Maudy. I was afraid to tell 
her I was hacking. Her family’s a hundred per 
cent American and she’s damn proud. When I 
brought home money she wouldn’t take it—‘You’re 
on the crook, Tom, and I’m going to leave you.’ 


VAL SINESTRA 217 

Then I blurted it all out. I was frightened stiff— 
what do you think she did?” 

“Haven’t any idea, Tom—abused you roundly 
for a piker?” 

“Na—she just hugged me till I didn’t have a 
breath left. ‘Tom,’ she said, ‘I’ye cried many a 
long night. I couldn’t see you making a living. 
God is good; He wouldn’t let me go begging to my 
rich friends. Hacking’s a fine business, but there’s 
something against it—those flappers. Don’t take 
’em in your car; sooner lose a fare. You’re good 
looking and they’ll get you.’ ” 

Floyd laughed. Tom was the right medicine for 
him. 

They were driving uptown—^Tom’s tongue went 
faster than the car; he had acquired a lot of prac¬ 
tical information. “They’re starring the crime 
wave now, all bunk—we’re no worse than we were. 
Wait till after the election, the prisons will be so 
empty they’ll have to turn ’em into meeting houses. 
What do you think of them stinking Republicans 
up in Washington?” 

“Tom, don’t insult my inherited political party. 
I’ve had them handed down to me, and I must carry 
them.” 

Tom opened his mouth, the brimstone flowed, the 
air was blue; then suddenly he was dazzled by two 
shapely legs encased in flesh-colored cobwebs, and 
a pair of bright eyes emitting sparks. 

“Taxi, Miss?” He drew up to the curbstone, 


218 


VAL SINESTRA 


smiling at her, showing his white teeth, sprang out, 
opened the door, dusted off the seat, held the rug 
in his hand. 

She was undecided. “I don’t want to go, 

yet....” 

“Yes you do, but you don’t know it,” laughed 
Tom. 

A gust of cold wind blew her against him. Tom 
glanced downward. 

“Your legs are cold?” 

“Oh! Warm as toast.” 

“Your blood keeps them warm.” 

She twisted her little mouth. 

“No, my vanity.” 

Clever girl. Tom lifted her bodily into the car; 
they were old friends now. He wrapped her in the 
warm rug and put a match to her cigarette. 

“Who’s the melancholy Dane in front?” 

“Oh! He’s a guy I’m breaking in.” 

They drove to Madison Avenue. She jumped 
out and gave him a generous fare. 

“I want to go out again tonight; call for me?” 

He smiled into the pretty laughing eyes. “Awful 
sorry. Miss, but there’s nothing doing. I’m mar¬ 
ried.” He heaved a big sigh. 

“She was nice—wasn’t she.” 

Floyd slapped him on the back. “You’re a hero, 
Tom. It was a great temptation.” Tom beamed. 

“They’ve taken It into their pretty heads to star 
the chauffeur. We’re the cowboys of the East. 


VAL SINESTRA 


219 


We drive and slash about, and lasso them in. Say, 
I’m afraid I’m going to lose my man—handsome 
lad, good family. There’s a little snipe baiting for 
him, and she’ll hook him too.” 

At the garage he found a note. 

Married this morning to Ida, family approve. 

Tom’s sorrow was pathetic. “They’re rich brok¬ 
ers. They’ll put him on the street. He’ll never be 
able to earn an honest penny again. Where shall I 
find another like him? The girls fell for him every 
time. He was a handsome fish. You’ve got noth¬ 
ing to do; help me out just for today. You can run 
a car. It doesn’t need so much experience, and I 
can’t afford to let her stand idle.” 

“I haven’t got the experience, Tom, but I can 
hand you the good looks,” said Floyd, modestly. 

Tom was jubilant; he’d have to keep his mind on 
the wheel—and a few knocks would shake him up. 

“Now I’ll give you the fruits of my experience. 
Before you turn a corner, blow the horn, then stop 
and listen. Don’t try to pass anything; let the other 
fellow smash you up—then you’ll get damages. 
The wise guy says, Ve’ve got a third eye in the 
back of our heads.’ Exercise yours; it’ll work after 
a while. When an old woman or a cat gets in 
front, don’t run her down, jump off and put her on 
the sidewalk. Train your ears to hear the pistol in 
a man’s pocket. Keep your foot on the brake and 
a curb on your temper; a timely joke can make it a 


220 


VAL SINESTRA 


dollar more. You’ll get into tough places, so does 
a doctor. Your fare is your patient; save his life 
if you can. When it comes to a toss up, you know 
who gets the preference. Never argue with a 
crook; take whatever he gives. If it’s nothing, say 
thank you and get away. Don’t let pretty feet lead 
you astray. A man’s strength depends on his dis¬ 
position, and the time of night. If you fall for it, 
forget it. Do what you can’t help, but—whatever 
you do, don’t get found out. It’s all contradiction; 
you do something now and you don’t do it the next 
time. If the same thing happens twice, it’s never 
the same thing. You’ve got to be not only a good 
chauffeur but a good actor, a good talker, a good 
curser, a good fighter, a good navigator, a good all- 
around regular feller, and then you don’t half fill 
the bill. Now scoot.” 

“Yes sir,” said Floyd, and plunged into the 
depths of the night city. 

His first venture in the taxi business was a per¬ 
sonal success. 

“Taxi, sir, taxi, Miss, take you anywhere—where 
to. Miss?” The women jumped in at once; he 
picked up two, going to the theatre. Would he call 
for them at eleven-thirty? 

“With great pleasure,” answered Floyd. He 
helped them out, and stood with his hat in his hand. 
He forgot he was a chauffeur for a moment. Then 
he drove people uptown, downtown, all over town, 
guiding his car in and out of the great mass of con¬ 
gested traffic. 


VAL SINESTRA 


22 ! 


A young fellow rushed at him. “Drive for your 
life, my wife is dying.” 

It was up in the Bronx. Floyd put on the speed.. 
He got away from two policemen and landed at a. 
brick house with the blinds lowered. The man 
dashed up the steps. 

“Is she alive? Thank God!” 

He threw Floyd a bill. 

“You did well, my man, keep the change.” 

Floyd felt like a public benefactor. Hacking was^ 
a noble profession. 

He was hailed by two men who jumped in. He- 
didn’t like them. He heard the pistol; looked inta 
the butt of it. They gave him a street number out¬ 
side the city limits. 

“Drive like Hell!” He did. The men jumped 
out into a vacant lot. “Now cut away, and don’t 
squeal.” 

Floyd said “Thank you,” and shot across the 
town. He was held up and questioned. No, he 
hadn’t seen anybody. He had no compunctions. 
He wouldn’t give the guys away; that wasn’t sport. 
Then he took the car back to the garage, and went 
home in the subway. He had thirty dollars. He 
put fifteen in an envelope, addressed it to Tom, and 
wrote on a slip of paper: 

Dear Tom; Here is half the boodle. It was a great experi¬ 
ence. Ready to help out at any time. 

Tom got back early to the garage, washed his. 
khaki suit, hung it up to dry, cleaned his car, looked 


222 


VAL SINESTRA 


over the motor. He waited for Floyd, but he didn’t 
show up; he was sure the car would come back 
damaged. He expected that, but he hoped Garrison 
wouldn’t get hurt. Then he grew impatient. It 
•didn’t matter to Uhat guy^ how long he stayed out— 
his wife wasn’t waiting for him. He said good 
night to the man in the garage, told him to look out 
for a ‘green-hand,’ and showed him where the 
bandages were. Then for a bit of exercise he 
walked up to the Bronx, taking a drink now and 
then to ease his mind. It was two o’clock when he 
opened the door of the little flat. The kitchen was 
spotless, the blue and white oilcloth shone like 
marble tiles. There was a tray on the table, with 
cold corned beef and three large baked potatoes; 
the coffee was gurgling on the gas stove. He de¬ 
voured everything in sight, washed up the dishes, 
then went into the next room and stood at the bed. 
Maudy was in a deep sleep, how pretty she was. 
She must have been very tired or she would have 
heard him come in. She’d been scrubbing that 
damn kitchen floor again. She couldn’t wait till 
Sunday morning; that was his job. He looked at 
her small hands. They were rough from the wash¬ 
ing soda, and the nails were not manicured. He 
had to kiss them, he couldn’t help it. She opened 
her eyes, smelt the hootch. 

“Tom, you’re going it; you’ll break your neck 
one night, and I’ll be a widow—take a bath.” The 
sleepy eyes closed, she dropped off again. 


VAL SINESTRA 


22S 


Tom put a roll of bills under her pillow, slipped 
out of his clothes and fell on the sofa. He didn’t 
take a bath, he’d gotten over that pastime; he had 
something better to do. 


30 

Floyd woke up the next morning, his head ach¬ 
ing, his limbs weary. The experience had battered 
his body, but shook up his mind. His share of the 
“boodle” lay on the table—three five-dollar bills. 
He examined them curiously, turning them over 
and over—the first money he had ever earned. 
Was it money? No—he threw away much more 
than that paltry sum every day. But this was dif¬ 
ferent; he had worked for it with the “sweat of hia 
brow.” He felt the pressure of the masses, who 
were earning their bread. This meant money to 
them. He remembered how the Colonel looked at 
him, when he told him to sell something—they^ 
were needing more and more. “You’re destroying^ 
capital,” said the Colonel. “You should preserve 
it, it’s your only source of income.” 

Capital! capital! He wondered if they had 
blown in all his father had left—blown in, where? 
—into the air like soap bubbles, which glittered for 
a moment in the sun, then burst and disappeared. 

He put his hand to his head. Where could he 
go to pass the morning? Julie was not visible until 


224 


VAL SINESTRA 


twelve. She was lucky; the day was only half as 
long for her. Then that queer feeling came again; 
lie went to see Dr. McClaren. 

“How’s your wife?” said the doctor. 

“Very well, as far as I can see. I want to speak 
to you about myself—my mind wanders—I cannot 
concentrate, nothing interests me; I go back always 
to the past; the things I have lived through haunt 
me. 

“You are trying too hard to forget.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

“No, you don’t. If we wipe out memory, we 
throw Into the dust heap of oblivion the best part 
of our life, experience.” 

“But if that experience Is unbearable?” 

“We can make It bearable. We must work it 
the right way.” 

“But I cannot see howl Father Cabello spoke 
about the ‘gift of forgetting.’ ” 

The doctor smiled. “I am not for such narcotics. 
We shouldn’t go about hypnotizing ourselves. A 
man of mind should be able to deal with the com¬ 
plications of his nature in an intelligent manner.” 

This meant nothing to Floyd; the doctor was 
talking “over his head.” 

“I’ll try to make It clearer to you. You have got 
yourself tangled up. What you think so terrible 
one day will be precious to you In years to come. 
How do you stand financially?” 

“I don’t know. I’m not sure—^badly, I think.” 


VAL SINESTRA 


225 


The doctor knew; he had seen the Colonel. 

“I want you to try to get rich.” 

Floyd had a shock. He looked sharply at the 
doctor; there was no glare in his eyes, but he was 
fingering a paper cutter—no, he wasn’t mad—but 
he was a mind reader. Floyd had been thinking 
of money—in a vague way, wondering that so many 
people whose names he had never heard had bobbed 
up as millionaires. 

“The pursuit of wealth may be sordid, but if we 
succeed, we are compensated by a gratifying sense 
of self-confidence, authority, power, not speaking 
of the good we can do with our ‘ill gotten’ gains. 
As for the spiritual side being starved, well, we 
don’t think so; if we concentrate on the world of 
the spirit, it will demoralize us in our practical life, 
which is our end of it. We must uphold that, for 
the sake of bankrupt Europe.” 

“Doctor, I dreamt last night that I was enorm¬ 
ously rich.” 

“Good! make it a complex. It will drive more 
harmful ideas out of your mind. Come and see 
me again. I am curious to know how my prescrip¬ 
tion’s going to work. . . .” 

Floyd found the Colonel, erect, well satisfied; he 
had no complexes, he wasn’t married. 

“How do I stand?” 

The Colonel hesitated. 

“Come, out with it; I want the truth.” 

“Well, you’ll have to practice strict economy to* 


226 


VAL SINESTRA 


make up for your enormous expenditure of the last 
few years. Do you want to sell your house?” 

“Economy? Sell the house? Julie!—impos¬ 
sible.” 

“Nowadays a man can’t live on interest.” 

Floyd snapped his fingers. 

“Economy, bah! We’ll have to create new capi¬ 
tal.” The Colonel opened a drawer, took out a 
card of the Garrison estate, kept as a physician 
does the history of a patient’s disease; then he 
placed a map on the table. It was interlaced with 
red lines designating the shrinkage. Floyd looked 
over it. 

“The entire water-front Is crossed off, I see.” 

“Yes, the Martin Steele Corporation bought it 
for investment. By the way, that was a great thing 
young Steele did.” 

“What thing?” 

“He left his entire business to his employees, 
equal shares, and the money to keep it going. 
Waldbridge told me about it with tears In his eyes, 
the other day, at the memorial service they gave 
for him.” 

“Memorial service?” 

“Didn’t you know? I saw Mrs. Garrison there, 
but she was gone before I could get through the 
crowd.” 

Julie there? She hadn’t told him. He thought 
he knew all her movements. 


VAL SINESTRA 


227 


“It was wonderful; I wouldn’t have missed it for 
the world. They are going to screen it. It was a 
queer mixed crowd—artists he had saved from 
starvation, musicians he had sent abroad, women he 
had started right—they all got up and told their 
stories. It was like a Christian Science service. A 
man sang, a barber named Hippolyte, well known on 
Fifth Avenue, a wonderful voice. They say an 
opera manager has engaged him. He sang psalms 
in Greek and Hebrew, wails in the minor key, just 
tore at your entrails. He set them all crying. One 
poor cripple made a scene; swore he saw the dead 
man’s spirit. Of course, that hypnotized the others; 
they all saw it. There was a tall man in a corner— 
the light struck him for a moment. I tell you, Gar¬ 
rison, I’ve got the hide of a rhinoceros, but it made 
my flesh creep. Now there are two left of those 
river shanties, we’ll pull them down and build one 
big office building—” 

Floyd didn’t hear him; he was in the church lis¬ 
tening to the voice of Hippolyte, the cries, the pray¬ 
ers for Martin—the philanthropist, the good man. 
He forced himself to say something. 

“I knew Martin Steele all my life, but had no Idea 
of that side of him.” 

“Nor I, but most men keep the best part of them 
hidden.” 

“Yes,” said Floyd, tracing lines on the map. “I’ll 
go down with you and look at those shanties. I 


228 


V4L SINESTRA 


want money and lots of it; every fool’s got it. I can 
be as big a fool as the next one.” 

The Colonel didn’t contradict him, but he doubted 
if Garrison would ever be that kind of a fool. 


BOOK III 


Future—the hidden meanings of Past and Present, a dark picture. 
Imagination flashes the light of Prophecy, foretells life’s realization 
or disillusion, the Soul’s victory or defeat. 

‘Tiction, my Masters! All is Fiction!” 



BOOK III 


1 

It took some years to become a “rich fool,” but 
Garrison accomplished it. He had no business 
ability, at least that is what he told people, and hon¬ 
estly believed it; how could he? he had never been 
in business. He thought it well over, and became 
what he had always condemned in others—a gam¬ 
bler. He risked every dollar he had, and all he 
could borrow in hazardous real estate speculations. 
It was touch and go many times, as the values rose 
and fell. They called him “Lucky Garrison”; he 
knew better, but there was a grim satisfaction in 
his success. He realized as he had learnt to manipu¬ 
late money that a man can attain nothing without 
it. Other “big” interests developed. Every bit of 
his energy came into play; there was always some 
interesting thing coming up, which led to great con¬ 
nections, such as international finance and the like. 
New “deals” got to be a necessary physical tonic, 
like a cocktail before dinner, and a strong cigar and 
black coffee after. . . . 

He scanned the morning paper at the breakfast 
table, looking carefully over the financial news and 
rate of exchange. 


231 


232 


VAL SINESTRA 


“We are sailing into prosperous times,” said he 
to Julie. He was an optimist, like all good Ameri¬ 
can millionaires. Julie had no opinion, she smiled. 

As Dr. McClaren predicted, her religious mania 
passed off—she was now deeply interested in Art, a 
patroness of the Museum, and much sought after 
by budding talent. Floyd encouraged this “mania”; 
it was harmless. There was a busy day before him, 
a big deal to close; he was in a hurry to get to his 
office. She went with him to the door. He looked 
up at the imposing staircase and beautiful Tiffany 
glass window. He hated it once; how could he have 
been so prejudiced? It was all in the very best of 
taste, Julie was perfectly framed in it. 

“I’ll meet you at the Museum about five o’clock; 
we’ll drive around for an hour. I forgot to tell 
you. I’ve invited some men to dinner; it’s business. 
Do you mind?” 

Julie smiled again. 

“Oh, no!” 

With a sudden impulse he took her hand. 

“Are you happy, Julie?” 

She looked at him; what made him ask that? 

“Oh yes!—I have every reason to be.” 

“Is there anything I can buy for you?” 

“Nothing.” 

She stood watching him drive off and waved her 
hand. It was well known in their circle that the 
Garrisons were a very devoted couple. 

Floyd leaned back in the car, puffing at a cigar. 


VAL SINESTRA 


233 


The years had changed him; the sensitive boy had 
become a man of affairs, a Capitalist. He was very 
sane; his Puritan instincts rebelled against the riot¬ 
ing emotions of the Latins. His life was made up 
of facts and figures; ultimately he would have be¬ 
come an image of clay, like his father’s statues, but 
there was a secret element of his life, of which no 
one had the slightest clue. The Past had ceased to 
torture him; it became a consolation. He lived over 
and over again the Romance of his youth, the agony, 
the passion, his first years with Julie, the rage of the 
murderer, the whole tragedy, but it didn’t hurt him 
now; Martin was dead, forgiven. We count the 
years we have lived to know how old we are—cor¬ 
rect mathematics, but our age corresponds to other 
numbers. Heart swings are the rhythm of our sea¬ 
sons, recording in spiritual time, the real life. 

The car stopped in Twelfth Street. Floyd 
jumped out, stood for a moment looking up at the 
imposing twenty-story office building which he had 
erected on the site of his old home. It had rented 
well. There was not a room empty. He had re¬ 
tained an office for himself on the third floor. He 
sat down to his desk, read his mail. He was about 
to sell the building—the psychological moment had 
come to “turn it over” and get a handsome profit. 
He never kept any real estate very long. New York 
neighborhoods change and values fluctuate. Then 
it occurred to him quite suddenly that the room iri 
which he sat was about the height of his father’s 


234 


VAL SINESTRA 


worksHop in the little house where he was born. 
There was no emotion, but it was strange he had 
never thought of it before. He looked at the heavy 
safe, the walls lined with repositories, where con¬ 
tracts were kept — and saw — clay images. He 
looked down at his desk; it was littered with old 
rags, bits of arms, legs—a young man, with an 
agonized face, dropped a candle. 

He smiled. What courage youth has! It was 
well done. The home of his childhood was still his; 
he had not desecrated it. He saw Mary flying past 
him up the stairs; she had become a world figure, 
the head of an international organization of nurses. 
When Julie’s “headaches” came on, Mary was al¬ 
ways there. He’d go softly to the door and wait; 
he didn’t knock; he knew she’d come out. 

“Mrs. Garrison is much better; I’m sure she’ll be 
all right in the morning.” Then the worn face, dim 
eyes, streaked hair would vanish. She stood again 
at the window in her bare room, where they had 
loved each other for a moment. 

The telephone at his elbow startled him. Julie’s 
voice—would he order some flowers for the dinner 
table. 

“Certainly, and a bunch for you. Anything else?” 

“Yes,” her tone became confidential. “What 
wine do you want served?—are the gentlemen heavy 
drinkers?” 

“No, but they’ll take all you give them.” 

He dropped the receiver, smiling. How eager 


VAL SINESTRA 


235 


he used to be to do all those small errands! the 
night of their house-warming—he drank too much. 
That Swede was a nice man. The den on the top 
floor was hung now with maps of suburban towns, 
new fields for speculation; he spent many evenings 
poring over them. Somehow his business mind al¬ 
ways worked well up there in that room where a 
man was murdered by his wife. 

The stenographer put a paper before him. He 
started, came back to reality; it was a bill of sale 
and very satisfactory. 

“I’ll close the deal tonight.” 

Then he commenced searching in an old desk for 
some papers he wanted, and came across a sealed 
envelope; on it was written “Boodle.” 

Boodle? What did it mean? He broke the seal 
and took out three five-dollar bills. 

Tom Dillon! He had quite forgotten him, but 
he had a vague idea that he owned a Taxi Com¬ 
pany, and was strong in local politics. 

He put back the fifteen dollars, resealed the en¬ 
velope, and wrote on it, “The foundation of the 
Garrison fortune.” He would give the story to his 
publicity man—how an impoverished son of wealth 
started in life by earning fifteen dollars as a chauf¬ 
feur. Tom Dillon! was the real thing. What was 
the real thing? Had he found it? or was he chas¬ 
ing phantoms? He had that feeling sometimes, in 
his most successful moments; it was a queer sensa¬ 
tion, as if he had caught a thing of vapor that 


236 


FAL SINESTRA 


melted out of hand and challenged him again from 
far off—and again that shadow race I 

He thought often of Tom Dillon after that, and 
one election night he saw him in the crowd, with a 
fine young fellow, the image of his father; they were 
laughing and nudging each other like two boy 
friends. Floyd shook off a feeling of loneliness and 
got out of their way. 


2 

Julie was recovering from an attack which left 
her mentally exhausted. She lay back in the sedan, 
her deep-rimmed eyes like smouldering coals. She 
arrived at the Museum an hour before the time 
agreed on with Floyd, wandered through the rooms, 
making notes about the hanging and grouping of 
new pictures. There was a small canvas in a cor¬ 
ner which she thought was somewhat crowded 
in. She asked about it. It had been received very 
recently and was not yet catalogued. “Yes, it was 
badly hung.’* 

She sank down on a divan before the picture—a 
Swiss landscape, with a mountain background slop¬ 
ing down to a grassy plateau; below, a bank of 
mist, through which could be distinguished an old 
chapel, with a broken cross on top. In a corner, 
hardly visible to the naked eye, she read, “Val 
Sinestra,” and underneath, two letters, M. S. 


VAL SINESTRA 


237 


She bent nearer, looking eagerly into the picture* 
Was it her imagination I or did she really see a 
shadowy outline of a man with a white figure in hla 
arms? Martini Martin! with flaming eyes, dis¬ 
torted face I—desperate I mad 1 

“A charming picture, isn’t it? like a Corot. It’s 
the first of this artist, he’s not known in America.” 

It was a member of the committee who spoke. 
Then Floyd came up and introduced his business 
friends. She smiled, asked them if they had seen 
some gems in the next room, and led them away 
from that picture in the corner. 

On arriving home she went through the house 
looking for something and finally found it, hidden 
away on a top shelf covered with dust; it was a 
small glass vase with a delicate stem. The engrav¬ 
ing was beautiful like a white mist over it. The 
butler washed it and held it up to the light; colors 
flashed through it. 

“It’s Bohemian glass, Madame. It will break 
easily.” 

“No I It’s very strong, I’ve had it a long time.” 

She put it on her bed-table, with a dark red rose 
in it. From that time the “headaches” were less 
frequent, the ravings about punishment ceased. 
Mary said to the doctor: 

“I think she’s getting over those horrible night¬ 
mares.” 

“I’m glad of that,” said the doctor wearily. He 
himself was suffering from an attack of nerves. He 


238 


VAL SINESTRA 


was getting old, and the hives of human bees he 
cared for didn’t always contain honey. They stung 
him at his patients’ table, at births, at marriages; at 
deaths, less so—that was a release. He fought 
them with his Scotch tenacity, but they grew too 
much for him. Finally he got rid of them by retir¬ 
ing from active practice and putting the whole 
“bunch” without names or dates, into a book on 
psychical research, which became celebrated. 

Julie devoted much time to her boy—took him in 
her car every morning to St. John’s College, called 
for him in the afternoon, preached religion to him 
at home, warned him of the great evils which arise 
from lack of it. She had been very negligent in her 
youth, and was punished for it. Religion was a 
great consolation. 

He listened to her with deference. He was ex¬ 
traordinarily gifted and devoured everything he 
could lay his hands on in the way of serious read¬ 
ing. His father was proud of him, but there was 
a growing sense of uneasiness about his religious 
studies. He saw little of the boy, who spent his 
evenings in his own room, filled with books he 
had bought himself in the old book shops. Floyd 
couldn’t understand them. The maps which hung 
on the walls of his den were more intelligible. 

A distant cousin of Julie’s came to America osten¬ 
sibly on business. The Bank, taken over by the 
family, had grown enormously rich under American 
management. Mr. Gonzola was highly cultured— 


VAL SINESTRA 


239 


a dark, handsome man with white hands and long 
tapering fingers. He was delighted with the boy 
and his knowledge of international literature. He 
found him reading Renan. 

“That’s forbidden, isn’t it?” 

The boy answered with a gleam of humor. 

“Not forbidden, but not taught. I read all they 
recommend in school, and all they forget, out of it.” 

Then came a letter from Father Cabello to Julie. 
He was very glad to hear that everything continued 
to be so satisfactory with her. The wonderful gifts 
of her boy interested him; he saw in his genius the 
hand of God leading him into the Divine path. 
They must decide now about his career. 

Julie handed the letter to Floyd, who read it 
carefully and understood its hidden significance. 

“This means the priesthood.” 

“Yes,” said Julie, “but don’t speak of that to 
Joseph.” 

That evening at dinner, she said: 

“Joseph, would you like to go to Rome to visit 
Father Cabello?” 

The boy’s eyes lit up. 

“Oh yes, it’s the dream of my life. And—I 
would like to go to Vienna, to see your people.” 

Mr. Gonzola spoke quietly, his arm around the 
boy. 

“Let me take him, Julie. I promise you there 
will be no influence. Our family has been split into 
different religious camps for generations; those who 


240 


VAL SINESTRA 


have remained true to their faith have made no ef¬ 
fort to bring the others back. We do not prosely¬ 
tize. The missionary is unknown to us.” 

Julie hesitated, looked at Floyd; it was a great 
responsibility. The boy was bending over eagerly 
watching his father, who decided quickly, as was 
his way in business. His theory was, when a man 
weighs the pros and cons of an enterprise, the diffi¬ 
culties grow so great that he generally ends in not 
undertaking it. He would give the boy his chance; 
he was old enough now to decide for himself. 

“Go with Mr. Gonzola,” said Floyd. 

The boy flung his arms around his father; “I will 
do what is right!” 

“Fm sure you will, my boy,” answered Floyd. At 
that moment he caught sight of Julie’s face reflected 
in the mirror; it was lit by a quick flash of joy. 


3 

When Father Cabello received a letter from Julie 
informing him Joseph had sailed with a Gonzola, 
he proceeded at once to counteract any possible 
“baleful” influence. He communicated with the 
Catholic members of the family in Vienna, hinting 
that the boy was destined for the church. This 
branch of the Gonzolas were devout Catholics, gen¬ 
erations old; they welcomed Joseph affectionately 
and brought him as early as possible to Rome. 


VAL SINESTRA 


241 


There he remained for some time, a member of 
Father Cabello’s household, coming and going at 
will. The priest watched, waited; the mind of the 
boy was not yet ripe for decision. 

Joseph was dazzled with his first glimpse of the 
Pagan City—its remains of Hellenic civilization; 
the pomp and splendor of its churches; the Cardi¬ 
nals in their decaying palaces, clinging to the tradi¬ 
tions of the Past; the art of the great Masters, those 
faithful servants of the Church, with their wonder¬ 
ful portrayal of legendary religion. The unearthly 
beauty of their divine types, fired the boy’s imagina¬ 
tion, stimulated him like rich wine, tasted for the 
first time, taken again in long draughts until his 
senses reeled. The people fascinated him with their 
magnetism, their emotional sensuality, their worship 
of women, symbolized in the Blessed Virgin and 
Child; their passions—jealousy, hate, revenge, re¬ 
pentance. He roamed day after day through the 
streets, sat for hours in the churches listening to the 
chanting of the priests, with a pleasant sense of 
drowsiness, like the after effects of a narcotic. He 
followed the processions of monks, pilgrims, peas¬ 
ants, into churches, away from churches, sprinkling 
with holy water, kissing burnt pieces of sacred 
wood—and always that music! Oh! that music! 
swelling in waves of overpowering sadness from 
the throats of unsexed men—the terrible sweetness 
of it, sucking him down into the waters of oblivion, 
of self-deception; the soul in safety, interceded for, 


242 


VAL SINESTRA 


the load of personal responsibility fallen away, care¬ 
free on earth, secure of Heaven, an unutterable 
sense of rest from that torturing brain which keeps 
persecuting with its unceasing cry, “Think while ’tis 
day, for the night cometh when no man can think.” 

In moments of realization, he would say to the 
priest, “Father, I am going to Vienna; I must go.” 
The priest did not keep him back. The boy must 
live through the inevitable experience of intoxica¬ 
tion, reaction, submission. He was travelling 
smoothly; he would arrive safely, 

4 

When Joseph went from Rome to Vienna to visit 
the Gonzolas, he was in a state of mental unrest and 
indecision. The artist in him shrank from activity. 
He was very sensitive; he couldn’t bear pain, dis¬ 
appointment. The Church would be a shelter from 
the materialism of the world. It would be ideal to 
work for the poor. The garb of piety appealed to 
his imagination — a priest walking among the 
wretched, the persecuted, the unhappy, giving every¬ 
thing, his material wealth, himself, living a simple 
contemplative life. The beauty of it all still re¬ 
mained with him, keeping him in a semi-intoxicated 
emotional state. He thought of the works of im¬ 
mortal art created in the quiet of the cloister. 
He was sorely tempted, not by the flesh like St. 


VAL SINESTRA 243 

Anthony, but by the spirit and the longing for re¬ 
lease from a leaden sense of responsibility. 

“If not that, what?” He saw nothing for him 
in the future. His father had at least the satisfac¬ 
tion of success. He himself had created his capital. 
It was a game, like racing, roulette, politics — a 
game, life a game! what else? what else?—It was 
all so ugly; the yearning for beauty came again, he 
was sorely tempted. . . . 

Mr. Gonzola’s wife and three daughters were 
models of domesticated womanhood. Their home 
was very modern, with just enough of the Idealism 
of religion to give It spiritual charm. The girls 
were well educated, practical women, keenly alive 
to the responsibility of their wealth, full of enthusi¬ 
asm and hope for the future of the world. They 
received Joseph with great cordiality, helped him 
perfect his German, and were silently sympathetic 
toward his unsettled spiritual condition of mind. 

Mrs. Gonzola was one hundred per cent ma¬ 
ternal: she mothered her husband, her daughters, 
her friends, her poor, and any stray animal who 
instinctively came to her for shelter. Joseph was 
her life’s crowning joy, the realization of a hope 
long dead—a son! She found him too thin, too 
pale; poor boy, he had never known the cuisine of 
Israel, the finest In the world. No Cordon-bleu 
can equal the Jewish mother, who cooks with the 
subtlety and cleanliness of religious tradition and 
puts into her cakes the honey of love. This healthy 


244 VAL SINESTRA 

sane atmosphere was a good tonic for Joseph’s over¬ 
excited mind. 

Mr. Gonzola’s ethics were very simple. He kept 
the two principles of life wide apart, and gave ^‘to 
God what was His, to men, what was theirs.” He 
was an able man of business, and did not consider 
a good bargain with legitimate profit, ungodly. 
Sometimes he had an uneasy feeling; the religious 
ground was slipping like sand from under his feet. 
He said to Joseph with a sigh: 

“I do not live up to ritual laws as strictly as I 
should. My daughters won’t let me; but I am go¬ 
ing to take you to Frankfort to visit the head of the 
family, Pedro Gonzala, who has preserved the 
original spelling of our name and the tradition of 
our ancestors. In his home you will see pure ortho¬ 
doxy, but—don’t forget the responsibility is on my 
shoulders. I have given my word to your mother 
—and I want to keep It—If possible.” 

Joseph laughed. Mr. Gonzola was an honest 
man, 

5 

The family of bankers, with branches all over 
the world, were assembled this year in Frankfort. 
Pedro Gonzala, despite his great age, was consulted 
about every detail by the “young” men of the firm, 
from fifty years old and upward. The “children” 
under fifty stood meekly silent, and listened to 


VAL SINESTRA 


245 


warnings against the ardor of youth and the temp¬ 
tation of speculative times. The house of Gonzola 
had braved many storms, was sometimes drawn into 
international financial catastrophes, but it had al¬ 
ways kept its honor unimpeached and continued to 
live up to its reputation as creditors of the world. 
These cold men of finance led a dual existence. 
When they stepped over the thresholds of their pa¬ 
latial homes, the world outside was forgotten. 
They lived their religious life with extreme exact¬ 
ness. Their wives and daughters were faithful to 
the Law, in their domestic life, their marraige life, 
and in the education of their children. They were 
the remains of a vanishing caste, which lived upon 
its own fanaticism. 

When Joseph first met Pedro Gonzala in his 
private office, he saw a very old man wearing a 
black silk skull cap, otherwise well groomed and 
modern in appearance. He was seated at his desk, 
surrounded by the members of the firm who listened 
to him with great respect. 

The “old gentleman” came to business every day 
in his carriage, although he had many cars but was 
never known to ride in them. He was Interested 
in the breeding of horses, frequented the races, and 
patronized art, music, and the theatre. Most of 
his time was devoted to philanthropic enterprises, 
but he kept a firm hand on the ship of finance, of 
which he remained until the end of his life the un¬ 
disputed head. 


246 


VAL SINESTRA 


He questioned Joseph about his mother, remark¬ 
ing upon the success of the Gonzola bank in New 
York. He knew all about “lucky Garrison’* who 
had shown himself very able. He invited Joseph 
to dinner at his home. 

The Gonzala mansion was sheltered from the 
gaze of the curious, by a closely planted row of 
very old trees, whose entwined branches symbolized 
the unity of the family, a treasure-house of antiques, 
from all parts of the world—collected with taste 
and discernment by each succeeding generation. 
The picture gallery was celebrated for Its rare mas¬ 
terpieces. Joseph took great delight in a corner 
of family portraits. But the most cherished 
treasure of Pedro Gonzala’s home was Ruth, his 
granddaughter, just approaching womanhood; she 
was all that was left of his immediate family. The 
World War had swept the younger men away. He 
had lived ten years longer than the allotted Biblical 
time; he was life-worn, but before he went to his 
long rest, his little Ruth must be married to a 
righteous man, a student of the Talmud, and—of 
equal birth. Such a one was difficult to find. 

Pedro Gonzala stood in the grand salon sur¬ 
rounded by beautiful dark-eyed women and serious 
men of finance. He welcomed Joseph in the name 
of the family, as a great grandson of that learned 
man and deep thinker, Joseph Abravanel, who 
fought with all his strength against the wave of as- 


VAL SINESTRA 247 

similiation which had engulfed his immediate 
family. 

“You, my boy, are in the third generation of 
those who were led away from the old tradition; 
it is not your fault, but no student or thinker can 
afford to neglect the study of a race which gave to 
the world the first revelation of one God. Hebrew 
thought, in its inception, its ethics, its morals, is 
the pure wine of religion; in America, they have 
thinned it with the water of reform, and put it 
into fine-looking bottles with gold labels.” 

There was a ripple of applause; the old gentle¬ 
man told his little jokes like an actor, expecting re¬ 
sponse, which the family gave at the proper time; 
then he related the oft-repeated story of his youth, 
when his dear Sarah, “God rest her soul,” was 
alive. He led the boy before a portrait painted by 
.Rembrandt, representing a stately, handsome ma¬ 
tron. At a ball in Paris, given to them by the 
diplomats and aristocrats of France, there were 
rumors of war, and much disquietude. He himself 
was absent, called away to a serious Cabinet con¬ 
sultation. The guests crowded about Mrs. Gon- 
zala, who was gracious and smiling. 

“Are you not worried, Madame?” asked a cele- 
bated diplomat. 

“Oh I No,” laughed Mrs. Gonzala. “I am cer¬ 
tain there will be no war, because I will not permit 
my husband to lend the money for it.” 


248 


VAL SINESTRA 


Ruth stepped daintily down the marble staircase. 
Her grandfather had bade her array herself. It 
was a gala occasion—the reunion of the family, 
and a welcome to a young Gonzola from America. 
Around her neck were rows of costly pearls; dia¬ 
monds sparkled in her hair; she wore a cape of 
ermine, a young queen of an old dynasty—an in¬ 
heritance of beauty and purity. She put out her 
hand to Joseph, and said “Welcome, cousin Joseph” 
—raising her face to his. He bent down and 
kissed her cheek; they stood looking at each other, 
speechless. The women nudged each other. “What 
an ideal couple they might have been”—if was a 
great pity. 

The long dinner table was a beautiful picture 
with Its service of gold, priceless glass and fine linen, 
and the Patriarchal figure at Its head. Ruth sat 
beside him. 

“I am dazzled,” said Joseph, “such lovely 
women, such jewels, such wealth.” 

“We are not wealthy,” answered Ruth, “because 
it is a principle of the family to give away a large! 
part of Its Income, and you will see that we live very 
simply; but tonight all this is In your honor. Our 
jewels, furs, laces have come down to us from gen¬ 
erations back; our home and pictures can never be 
sold, unless the business goes under, and that will 
never happen.” 

“I hope not,” said Joseph, “it has meant too 


VAL SINESTRA 


249 


much to the world; but all these jewels must have 
been bought once.” 

“Oh, yes, in the times of the Ghetto, when the 
Jews were not allowed to own real-estate—so 
they bought jewels and hung them around the 
necks of their wives who wore them in secret and 
gave them to their daughters and daughters’ daugh¬ 
ters. This has an interesting history.” She 
touched a necklace of shining, pink, living things 
lying against her white skin. “When the Romans 
separated Queen Berenice from her kingly lover, 
the last thing he did was to throw these pearls 
around her neck. She went back to her own do¬ 
minion and the pearls after her death iDecame the 
property of the Temple. We have had them in 
our family for many generations.” 

He bent down to examine the pearls, but his gaze 
stopped at her soft dark eyes. 

“And you will give them to your daughter?” 

“Yes,” said Ruth, “but I don’t think I shall ever 
marry.” 

“Why—insisted Joseph. 

“Because,” her voice dropped, he bent lower to 
listen, “I can only marry one of my own faith; 
they are all dying out. They have forgotten their 
ancestry,” 


250 


VAL SINESTRA 


6 

Father Cabello had reached the zenith of his 
earthly ambition, the Cardinalate. He had easily 
won in the race for advancement—a man of wealth 
and winning personality. The magic word 
“America” gave him prestige; it was a sign of good¬ 
will to the church in the United States. The priest 
was generally beloved, his doors were always open 
to the poor, to whom he gave liberal hands; they 
crowded the steps of his house, penetrated into his 
apartments. All efforts of his attendants to keep 
them away was futile. 

“Let them in,” said the Father, “they will be my 
future associates, ‘for of such is the Kingdom of 
Heaven.’ ” 

His secretary, a member of an old patrician 
family, shrugged his shoulders; his unspoken 
thought was, “if I have to live with them in Heaven, 
I hope I’ll never die.” 

The Cardinal had been confined to his room for 
some days with an attack of weakness, the result 
of an overtaxed heart. The doctor said to him, 
“Your Eminence, you must shun all excitement— 
no more receptions, no more arduous night work, 
no activity of any kind.” 

The Cardinal smiled, “That would be premature 
death; I must take my chances. But at present I 
cannot work; I have no strength.” 


VJL SINESTRJ 


251 


His new honors had not changed his mode of 
living. His palazzo, a relic of past grandeur, was 
simply furnished with only the necessary chairs and 
tables, and completely bare of drapery or super¬ 
fluous decorations. The Roman sun flooded his 
rooms through the high-arched windows. The 
garden of boxwood hedges and old trees was beau¬ 
tiful and fragrant; he could stand on his terrace 
and see the cupolas and innumerable spires of the 
city of churches, and listen to the bells pealing— 
now soft, caressing, pleading—now loud, harsh, 
commanding—those eternal bells that have wel¬ 
comed into the world, and followed out of it, 
millions of souls. 

The Cardinal sat in his private apartment. His 
Angers tapped nervously on the polished wood of 
the table upon which was a dish of fruits—figs,, 
honey, and a silver jug of iced water—a habit he 
had brought from the land of his adoption. He was 
waiting for Joseph. In the excitement of his new 
honors, weeks had passed with only now and them 
the accustomed epistolary greetings, but the time: 
was approaching to speak of the future. If he 
could realize his plan, thought out in every detail,, 
this boy would inherit his wealth, would carry on 
his work among the poor. 

A spasm of agony turned his lips blue, his face 
livid. He quickly dropped a tablet into a glass of 
water and swallowed it. The unbearaMe paia 
slowly subsided; the brain moved again. 


252 


VAL SINESTRA 


“If God would be merciful and let him live to see 
(the boy ordained.” 

A flash of determination, of invincible Will. Yes, 
It would be I It must be I He forgot the dark- 
cornered room; he saw the cathedral, the proces¬ 
sion of priests, the young divine. Why didn’t the 
boy come? He was eager to stamp his plan with 
the seal of realization. A shaft of sunlight shoot¬ 
ing through the window struck the chair opposite 
him. His sick heart bounded. Seated there he saw 
his old friend and enemy, Joseph Abravanel. He 
slowly made his way to the chair, passing his hand 
over it; it was empty. His thought had conjured 
up a momentary vision. How often had they sat 
like that, opposite each other at a table set with 
fruit and wine, the long evening passing like a flash 
over the chess board which became symbolical of 
the spiritual struggle between them. The tenacity 
of that old man, who would not give up hope, even 
after the conversion of his daughter 1 

“You have won this time, but there is the next 
generation.” 

When Julie was born, he was cheated again in 
this game for souls; but he would not give in, 
“God’s chosen people cannot die; they may lose the 
path, but they will find it again; they will come back 
in the third generation.” 

A spasm of fear convulsed the priest. Joseph 
Abravanel had the prophetic clairvoyance of his 
irace. No! No! The boy was a good, faithful 


VAL SINESTRA 


253 


child of the Church, a believer in the true Faith. 

He glanced again at the chair opposite; again he 
met those eyes long extinct—spirit eyes. 

The servant announced, “Joseph Abravanel 
Gonzola Garrison.” . . . 

Joseph threw himself with a gush of irresistible 
love into the old man’s arms; then, remembering, 
he dropped on his knees and kissed the ring of His 
Eminence. The Cardinal raised him, looking long 
into that mobile face aglow with the joy of life. 

“Sit down, Joseph, we have much to talk over. 
No! no! not there, here.” 

He pointed to a chair close beside him; there 
were three now at the table—indomitable spirits; 
one, invisible. 

The Cardinal felt his way, asked about the 
family; he had not heard from Julie for some time. 

“Oh, Mother is a bad correspondent, but if I 
miss a mail she cables.” His laughter rang through 
the high-vaulted room. “Father wants me to go 
into the banking business; the Gonzolas think I 
have talent for it.” 

He was peeling an apple, careful not to break the 
ring; the Cardinal noticed his long tapering fingers, 
his white hands. 

“Well, what do you think about it?” 

The boy’s eyes shot a mischievous gleam. 

“Our great ancestor on my father’s side was a 
baker, on my mother’s side they added a letter to 
it, and it became banker. Now if it is true that the 


254 


VAL SINESTRA 


third generation goes back, I think I’d rather make 
cakes than money.” 

The Cardinal laughed; the boy’s merriment was 
contagious. Then he grew grave again. 

“My son, there Is something In each generation 
which belongs neither to the Past nor the Present, 
but to the Future; it is God’s will working in us. 
The time has come to tell you of my wishes for you. 
I want you to continue my work, to take up the staff 
of Divine, Duty, to lay upon the altar of renuncia¬ 
tion the great gifts bestowed upon you by an All- 
Seeing God; you will give your youth, your man¬ 
hood, your old age, to save those helpless souls who 
need your Intercession, your spiritual support. You 
will one day succeed me in Rome; it has been my 
only earthly dream, ever since I held you as an in¬ 
fant in my arms. My time is short; I want to see 
you enter upon the path before I die.” 

The boy was on his feet, his face quivering with 
grief, the tears streaming from his eyes. 

“No, no; you must not die! I love you! I love 
you 1 If I could prolong your life for one hour I 
would give my right hand.” 

He held it up, firm, strong, beautiful. The 
Cardinal’s Imagination played him a trick again. 
He saw another white hand held up, old, feeble, 
trembling; the light shone through it. 

The boy’s heart was heavy—that beloved face 
before him, with the pallor of death on It. How 
could he say what he must? . . . 


VAL SINESTRA 


255 


“I have thought long and deeply of your wishes 
for me. I cannot I I cannot I There is something 
in me that rebels against the chastisement of the 
flesh. I don’t want to think always of death, to 
pray always; I want to work, I want to live. No 
one can intercede for me; I can intercede for no 
one. Each must work out his own salvation. The 
old world is spiritually decaying; the young must be 
the pioneers of a new world. We must tear down 
and dig and set the stones of a new foundation, and 
those who come after us will build. The Future 
will see miracles; the human being will awaken to 
the truth, that he himself is God.” 

“Stop! Blasphemer!” The old man broke into 
choking sobs. “Joseph! Joseph! I am responsible 
for your soul’s salvation; this is all madness! You 
will repent when it is too late.” 

“Father! it hurts me to give you pain, but it is 
impossible. I cannot! I cannot!” 

The Cardinal was cold to the soul—his boy, his 
heart’s idol, a heretic, an infidel; the stripling was 
strange to him, standing there with a look in his 
face of iron determination. He would break that 
will; he must! 

“You do not know what you are doing. You are 
too young. You have been influenced by that old 
sophisticated fox, Pedro Gonzala. I fought a 
greater man than he and won; I will fight again— 
I will save you, as I saved your mother.” 

“No! No! They have not influenced me. I 


256 


VAL SINESTRA 


have given up dogma, I will not be chained again by 
ritual, I will not be a mummy wrapped in the super¬ 
stition of past ages. I am a living, thinking being. 
I am free! free!’’ 

The priest’s eyes went past him to that shadowy 
figure, looking down now, as it had so often done in 
life, at a chess board on the table, fingering the 
pieces, moving, removing, trying new combinations. 
Neither had won; It was a drawn game;—stale¬ 
mate. With a low moan he sank back in his chair. 

The boy gave a cry of terror. 

“Father, speak to me! Speak to me!” 

The priest heard him not. He had renounced 
this world for the glory of the next. He was going 
to his reward, where there would be no dogma, no 
ritual, no religion. 

A terrible fear clutched the boy. He looked 
about despairingly. He was forsaking the shelter 
of those old walls. He had stripped himself bare. 
He must go out naked to meet the stones of the 
Philistines. He threw himself down before the 
beloved guide of his childhood, sobbing out his love, 
his loneliness. 

“Come back! Come back! Don’t leave me! I 
am afraid, afraid!” 

He called in vain; those wonderful dreams—the 
hope of immortality, the joy of Heaven—^would 
never come back; they had gone Into the past, like 
that still form, deaf to his entreaties, to his cries— 
gone forever! 


VAL SINESTRA 


257 


7 

Mr. Garrison was getting into his coat in the 
hall; it was after nine. 

“Good-bye, Julie, Vm off.” 

Her answer came from above. 

“Don’t go yet. I want to speak to you; it is 
something important.” 

With a suppressed feeling of impatience, he took 
off his coat and went up the stairs. He wondered 
how much Julie would ask for. She was very 
extravagant. He was surprised to find her waiting 
at the door of the sitting-room for him. She had 
slipped out of bed and thrown on a filmy wrapper; 
he was struck anew by her youthfulness. Her skin 
was like satin. She was forty and could easily be 
taken for ten years younger; but her beauty had 
ceased to disturb him. It was an accepted fact, like 
his luck in business. 

As he bent to kiss her, she noticed his hair was 
getting thin on the top. He would soon be bald. 

He dropped down on the sofa beside her. 

“You looked tired this morning; didn’t you sleep 
well?” said Julie. 

“As well as usual.” 

Floyd’s mind was overstrained; his accumulating 
interests kept him on a severe tension. His eyes 
troubled him and he wore strong owl-like spectacles 
framed in tortoise shell which gave him a look of 


258 


VAL SINESTRA 


comic solemnity. He didn’t tell Julie how very 
badly he slept; his many speculations took gibbering 
forms and danced around his pillow. He spent 
whole nights in his den, where a man had “sweated . 
blood.” He was beginning to feel the significance 
of that expression. At first the thought of possess¬ 
ing a million made his head reel, now he laughed at 
his modest pretentions. Desire grows until it ceases 
to be servant and becomes master. He hunted gain 
like a gambler who risks his last dollar. Envious 
competitors said, “Garrison’s getting to be a skin- 
fiint; he’d sell his soul for money.” 

It came back to him from a friend; he wasn’t 
annoyed, but wondered in a vague way if it were 
really true. 

When the news arrived of Cardinal Cabello’s 
sudden death and Joseph’s decision, Julie took it 
very hard; she spent days in the convent praying 
for her son’s soul. 

Floyd consulted with Dr. McCIaren. 

“She’ll get over it. It’s only a temporary dis¬ 
turbance. A bit of good news now will set her all 
right again. And how are you, Mr. Garrison? My 
medicine worked well, I see.” 

“Oh! yes,” said Floyd, “but times are bad—a 
man must be careful how he invests his money.” 

“That never troubles me; I haven’t any to 
invest.” 

“You’ve been a successful doctor, haven’t you?” 

“I hope so.” 


VAL SINESTRA 259 

The trouble with Dr. McClaren was that his 
bills were ridiculously small. 

“He underestimates his own ability,” said Floyd 
to Julie. “A man must set the price of his life’s 
work, and as he appraises himself, the world values 
him.” 

“I have a letter from Joseph,” answered Julie. 

“So have I; he keeps me well posted on compli¬ 
cations abroad; I am sure, if he will only get down 
to it, he’ll make a first-class financier.” 

This was Floyd’s ambition for his son. 

She took a letter from the table beside her. It 
was long, covering many sheets of paper. 

“The Gonzalas have been very good to him; he 
is in much better spirits. It was terrible, that 
struggle with His Eminence. I would have 
given in.” 

She always thought now of Cabello as “His 
Eminence,” in glittering robes, sparkling with 
jewels. 

“Yes,” said Floyd. “You always gave in. That 
was the trouble.” He turned to go. 

“Stop a moment; you must hear this.” 

He pushed away the call of business; he would 
rather have read it himself, when he found time, at 
luncheon perhaps. He hated to be read to. He 
couldn’t concentrate; his mind wandered off in 
figures. She read in a low voice very rapidly, stop¬ 
ping now and again; he knew she was skipping 
something; he wasn’t offended. He had always 


260 


VAL SINESTRA 


felt like a third party, and thought of Joseph as 
“Julie’s boy.” It was an interesting letter written 
in picturesque metaphors, just the way Julie’s 
mother used to speak, thought Floyd. The boy 
told of his many visits to Frankfort, and of closer 
acquaintance with Pedro Gonzala, and his grand¬ 
daughter. They had given a costume ball to cele¬ 
brate her sixteenth birthday. 

“A costume ball—that’s rather sporty,” re¬ 
marked Floyd. He had in mind those French 
masquerades given in his youth, where Martin 
danced the Can-Can with indecent French women. 

“Oh, no,” answered Julie, “listen; Joseph ex¬ 
plains it. 

“This was a ball, where the family personated their ancestors, 
the portraits in the gallery. Ruth took me around, told me their 
history for generations back. Wonderful, so full of struggle, 
tragedy, romance. I couldn’t hear enough of it!” 

“It didn’t affect me like that—those portraits you 
sent away gave me a cold chill.” 

“They were not your ancestors,” said Julie with 
a touch of sarcasm. Then she went on reading. 

“They called one of the portraits ‘the unhappy Pedro Gonzala,’ 
because he was an illegitimate son. That was Grandfather! I 
couldn’t tear myself away from him; he had such brave defiant 
eyes. Dearest Mother, I think it is a great injustice to brand a 
human being like that. There is nothing illegitimate in Nature. 
I’d rather be the child of love, than of calculation born in wed¬ 
lock.” 

Floyd frowned. 


VAL SINESTRA 


261 

“I don’t approve of those views. I’m afraid the 
boy is catching European radicalism.” 

Julie didn’t answer; she was absorbed in the let¬ 
ter. Floyd looked at his watch and jumped up. 

“Wait, wait, it is not finished. 

“Mother, I’ve written you often about Ruth, but I’m sure you 
don’t know what she is like. When I am with her, I’m afraid to 
look at her, and when I’m away, I can’t imagine how she looks. 
She’s something indescribable. Mother, I have fought with all 
my might against her, because I knew it was hopeless, but when 
she said she loved me, I went straight to her grandfather. I told 
him about the struggle with my conscience and our dear friend’s 
sudden death—he was very much moved, and put his hand over 
my head and blessed me; then I took courage and asked him for 
Ruth. He was silent a long time before he answered. I could see 
he was thinking deeply. Then he said: ‘The uncompromising ad¬ 
herence of our people to the Law in the days of the Ghetto pre¬ 
served the virility of the Race; but today our blood is in the veins 
of the world. That obstinate orthodoxy with which we are re¬ 
proached has saved us from being swept away in a great tidal 
wave of assimilation. Come to us! We will leave you free in all 
worldly matters, but you must live according to our ritual, you must 
worship in our synagogue, you must bring up your children in our 
tradition. You will realize as you get older the righteousness of 
my demands.’ ” 

Floyd was annoyed. 

“They will keep harping on those future genera¬ 
tions. How can we lay down the law for our 
grandchildren; they’ll know a lot more than we do.” 

Julie evidently didn’t agree, she kept on reading. 

“I walked about for days—trying to find some way—I wanted 
Ruth! Mother—you don’t know how much! I couldn’t keep away 
from her—she was waiting for me in the garden; she knew I 
would come. Mother, there was something so pure about her; 
such sweetness, I have never seen in any human thing. She was 


262 


VAL SINESTRA 


pale, but she spoke quietly. ‘Joseph, I know what Grandfather has 
asked you to do for my sake; you mustn’t do it. It wouldn’t be 
right for you. We try to bring the Past into the Present, to pre¬ 
serve our religion. We think we live, but it is only a wakingj 
dream, and we are happy they let us dream; but dreams are not 
for you. Joseph, you must go out on the high road of Progress— 
and I—I must stay here with my grandfather.’ Then I fell into 
the depths of despair and cried, how I cried. ‘I won’t let you; it 
is a living death; you are young! young!’ Mother, I’ll never for¬ 
get her face when she answered. ‘I look young, but my soul 
is old.’ ” 

A sob choked Julie’s voice; herself at sixteen, 
with that “old soul.” 

Floyd took the letter and read it rapidly to the 
finish. 

“She has shown me the way; it is all clear to me pow, and I am 
not unhappy. We are only separated for a little while; and 
Mother, I want you to write a letter to her grandfather—and 
plead for us. It might do some good. You are always asking me 
what I want. I want Ruth; give me Ruth!” 

It was pathetic how the boy clung to his childish 
illusions. His mother could give him everything. 
Julie was crying silently. 

The letter dropped from Floyd’s hand; waves of 
memory swept over him. The struggle between 
Joseph Abravanel and Father Cabello against him 
—the bitterness, the tragedy. He was on his feet; 
there was a youthful ring in his voice which had 
long been absent. He flung his spectacles, that 
badge of age, on the table. His eyes were young 
again. 


VAL SINESTRA 


263 


“We must bring it about; the boy must not be 
disappointed. He must have his love dream; he 
must not lose the best part of his life.” 

With a cry of joy Julie came to him and put her 
arms around his neck; they stood together, the light 
of that young romance across the sea reflected in 
their faces. Floyd bent down and whispered: “I 
was an ardent lover, wasn’t I, Julie? You were so 
sweet, so sweet.” 

Then he remembered a business deal, and put on 
his spectacles. At the door he stopped. 

“I shall write at once to Pedro Gonzala and 
make him a business proposition, which It would be 
madness to refuse; it will be a brilliant future for 
Joseph. This will cure him. He will see now that 
money can buy him everything! Don’t cry, Julie; 
it’s all for the best, and don’t miss the mail. It’s a 
five-cent stamp to Germany.” 

The Colonel lunched that day at the club, with 
Floyd, who was full of his plan to “dazzle” the 
Gonzolas. The Colonel was very sympathetic, then 
he said with a touch of sadness, 

“I’m getting old. People have no use for a 
bachelor, when he ceases to be eligible. If I had a 
boy like yours, a wife like yours. I’d be a happy 
man.” 

Floyd thought a moment. 

“I have been lucky; I come out well from very 
serious complications.” 

The Colonel thought he meant business deals. 


264 


VAL SINESTRA 


“You often risked too much; you were once on 
the brink of disaster.’^ 

“More than once,” answered Floyd, “but now 
things seem to be going my way. I would like to do 
some philanthropic construction work; a man must 
have something to keep him from drying up.” 

There was a responsive flash from the Colonel. 

“I thought I was the only one who thought like 
that.” 

Floyd looked around at the crowded room; there 
was laughter, jingling of glasses, the perfume of 
good tobacco. 

“I think they all do!” 


8 

Joseph had spent the winter in Geneva, studying 
the classic and modern languages. In the spring he 
joined a band of students, „on a walking tour 
through the mountains. At Tarasp he bade them 
good-bye—he was going to see the Val Sinestra, 
where his mother, years before, had been caught in 
a storm and where his father’s best friend, his Uncle 
Martin, had been lost in the mountains. 

He passed the hotel, climbed down into the 
ravine, and stood before the little chapel, where by 
a strange coincidence they had met Father Cabello. 
He pushed open the door. How old it was, how 
very old!—the fading wall pictures, the broken 


VAL SINESTRA 


265 


windows, the time-stained Virgin and Child loom¬ 
ing up out of the shadows. There was a sudden 
impulse to go to her, to speak to her, as he used to, 
when she was living to him. He gazed and gazed; 
she was drawing him down the aisle— 

He went out, shutting the door softly behind him. 
Ghosts followed him as he climbed up the open 
road; then they melted away in the warm sunlight. 

He was soon going home. His father’s 
“dazzling” business proposition had been enthusi¬ 
astically received by the younger Gonzolas—but 
the “old gentleman” remained obdurate. The boy 
must accept his conditions. Floyd had written to 
Joseph, advising him to “give in while the old man 
lived.” But Joseph refused to make any conces¬ 
sion; Ruth wouldn’t let him. 

He strolled along, his knapsack on his back, his 
hat and cape in his belt, a handsome young student; 
one meets them often in the mountains—fine happy 
lads, their only wealth, the Future. He knelt down 
by a stream, caught the falling water in his hands, 
and drank it; then he poetized. 


Spring dances in the mountains. 

Winter’s young daughter, peeps at her 
Sweet face in the Lake mirror. 

The old Snow-man growls; 

His blanket is thin, his feet stick out; 
They are warm, he is melting. 

He flies to the heights, in his 
March-wind aeroplane. 

There he can keep cool. 


266 


VAL SINESTRA 


The bride robes herself in 
Green and gold. 

Flowers fall from her long curls. 

The nuptial couch is white 
With blossoms. 

Wedding bells, birds caroling— 

Cattle calls—Alpine horns, 

Love time I 

He threw back his head and laughed—Ruth 
would like it. He would bring her and show her 
where he wrote it—on their wedding day I 

He read it again; it was a whimsical thing. He 
was sorry for the poets of the past who were 
chained in rhyme. The world had been rhyming so 
long, about everything—^love, religion, the soul, the 
origin of man. People rhymed themselves into a 
state of poetic fiction; then suddenly they found out 
it was all rhyme and no reason, 

9 

The path ran along the side of the mountain. In 
the valley below he saw people running, heard the 
sound of music in the distance. He stopped a bare¬ 
foot boy, who told him it was fete day in the 
Canton, to welcome their great Switzer home from 
Geneva, the artist Staehli. 

“Staehli? Yes, I know. I admired his paintings 
at the exhibition. 

Then he saw a procession of peasants in gala 
array, cows adorned with flowers, maidens singing. 


VAL SINESTRA 


267 


dancing. A tall man walked amongst them with 
swinging step, a peasant like the others. He puts 
his hand to his mouth and gives out a long piercing 
yodel. Above at a chalet a woman answers. 

“That is Angela, his wife; she is the doctor of 
the Dorf; she heals with her hands and brews herb 
tea which has a magic power!” 

“Oh! I’d like to meet the artist. Do you think, 
he’ll receive me?” 

“Oh, yes! All are welcome; they have the best 
milk and cheese in the village. I’ll take you down.’^ 

Near the chalet, they were stopped by an 
enormous hay wagon drawn by oxen. The young 
peasant leading them moved aside, smiling at 
Joseph. 

“That’s Martin Staehli, born and raised here,”* 
said the boy. 

The artist was standing outside the chalet watch¬ 
ing the procession wind its way around the path and 
out of sight. 

“Could I rest here awhile? I’ve walked from 
Tarasp.” 

“I shall have great pleasure.” He spoke Eng¬ 
lish hesitatingly with a Swiss accent. 

They entered a very large room, the light 
streaming in from all sides. 

“This is my studio. My home is a little distance 
away in our family chalet. It is old; I will show it 
to you if you are interested in antiques.” He went 
to the door and called. 


268 


VAL SINESTRA 


“Angela I Angela I” 

He looked keenly at the boy. 

“You are not a European?’’ 

“No, I am an American.” He raised his head 
with a gesture of pride which became him well. 
“My name is Joseph Abravanel Gonzola Garrison.” 

The artist put his hand over his eyes: Julie’s boy I 
The child he had held in his arms 1 He heard again 
that sweet young voice, felt the soft lips pressed 
against his. “I love you. Uncle Martin.” Julie’s 
boy I 

Angela came in with milk, bread, and cheese. 
Joseph thought she was the noblest-looking woman 
he had ever seen. 

The artist sat tracing lines on paper. He must 
hold that vision of the past; it would soon vanish. 
Angela apologized for his silence. 

“My husband is sketching you, he loves beautiful 
heads.” 

Joseph sat willingly for the artist. 

“It’s only for myself—and for you, if you will 
accept it.” Then pointing to a black band around 
the boy’s arm, he said with a touch of fear, “Are 
you in mourning?” 

“Yes, for our dearest friend, Cardinal Cabello.” 

“Cabello, a Cardinal? I am quite out of the 
world. I met him many years ago in America.” 

“He helped my mother bring me up. I was like 
his own son. I had to grieve him terribly before 
his death; but I couldn’t help it. I must go soon 


VAL SINESTRA 


269 

again to Rome; there is a large sum of money com¬ 
ing to the Church from my grandmother. It was 
left to me conditionally—I have forfeited it.*’ 

“Don’t look so sad,” said the artist. “I want the 
brightness of you. Tell me, have you sisters and 
brothers.” 

“No, I am an only child, and very much spoilt.” 

“Your parents, are they—living?” 

“Oh yes, and still young. My mother is the most 
beautiful woman in New York.” 

The artist caught the smile, then set him talking 
again, looking keenly into his face with its quick 
changes, its light and shade. He laughed often; he 
would throw back his head with a gush of merri¬ 
ment. That laugh thrilled the artist; it was like a 
far-away^ echo; it played on the chord of remem¬ 
brance, bringing out a melody long unheard. 

“You are not of pure American stock?” 

“Oh yes, my mother and grandmother were born 
there. Mother is of Spanish-Hebrew blood. 
Father is of Dutch extraction; he is proud of being 
‘pure American’—he forgets the Indian. All others 
are of emigrant origin; only some came over on 
earlier ships. A European called us a melting pot. 
I hate that expression; people don’t melt. We are 
not a smelting furnace. To me the United States 
is like a big Colonial mansion, with many windows 
made up of little panes of glass, which I call Race. 
Each one colors his glass with his own racial 
impulse.” 


270 


VAL SINESTRA 


“What color do you see?” 

“Oh, my window looks toward the East where 
the sun rises; it is gorgeous, with many colors,” 
laughed the boy. 

“I think I catch your meaning. It would make 
a good symbolical picture. A great prairie, and 
standing in it a White House built on Colonial 
lines. It is flooded with a glare of strong light, 
which in the individual separates into its prismatic 
colors—the different races.” 

“Yes, that’s what I mean; only an artist could 
think it out like that. Will you paint it?” 

“Perhaps some day, but why not you? You have 
the instinct in you; I feel it.” 

The boy’s face lit up. “How strange you should 
know that. I love art; I’ve studied it in Paris. 
I’ve been dabbling a bit in oil. They say I have 
talent.” 

The man bent forward. “I hav-e a class of young 
artists in Geneva; they are all unusually gifted. 
Join us!” How eager he was; he hung on to the 
boy’s answer. 

“I would like it, but an artist’s career is too 
passive for me. I have no patience. I want action, 
results; I want to work for the great World Refor¬ 
mation which is coming. I want to help bring down 
to this miserable, unhappy earth, a little of the 
Heaven we have been dreaming of so long. We 
must wake up! We must commence now and fight 
the monster of materialism which is destroying us.” 


VAL SINESTRA 


271 


He was on his feet, his head erect, his eyes blazing, 
A young David sharpening his sword for the great 
encounter with the Giant of superstition, lies, false 
Gods. 

“I must go now. May I come again? I’m going 
to write all about you to my mother. Were you 
here that time they were caught in the storm?” 

Angela put her hand on her husband’s shoulder. 
He started, looked up. 

“I was in America, I was very unfortunate 
there. I often lost my way—in jungles. Race 
instinct made me restless. The peasant blood was 
strong in me.” 

“Race instinct?” repeated the boy. “I’ve felt 
that—but I didn’t know what it was, stirring in me. 
I can’t express it. It was like a melody—from far, 
far away, coming back in snatches—like—like the 
strains of—a National Hymn. It excites me.” 

Angela’s eyes shone. 

“You are living a great romance, the romance of 
race.” 

“The romance of race, yes, that’s what it is.” 
Then he came nearer to them, and told his love 
story. 

“Ruth is to me not only my love, she is the ideal 
in my life. I am going to take her out of that 
beautiful dark house with its old portraits. I am 
going to make her soul young again.” 

The artist went with him down the path to the 
bend of the road. 


272 


VAL SINESTRA 


“Where shall I send the sketch?’’ 

“To the College in Geneva. Would you mind if 
I gave it to my mother?” 

“Oh, no! I will try to make it beautiful.” 

* Joseph lingered, looking again into the artist’s 
face with a touch of sadness. 

“1 feel as if I had known you a very long time.” 

“You have—” 

He drew the boy to him and kissed him and stood 
watching the young figure until it disappeared. 

Angela touched his arm. 

“Angela! that boy! that boy!” 

“Is he the son of the unhappy man who spent the 
night here?” 

“Yes—” 

The young peasant sent out a call from the barn, 
where he was flinging the hay lightly with a heavy 
pitchfork into the loft. 

“What are you going to do with our boy? He 
does not care for books; he has no talent for paint¬ 
ing? You are not ambitious for him—” There 
was a note of reproach in her voice. 

“Yes, very ambitious. I want him to be what 
nature has made him, a peasant; nothing could be 
nobler.” 

That night the artist remained in his studio to 
finish the sketch; he worked for hours with intense 
concentration, until the pencil dropped from his 
numb fingers. Then he threw himself down on the 
couch, but couldn’t rest. Ashes strewn over the 


VAL SINESTRA 


273 

fire had smothered but not extinguished it; the 
flames broke through. That boy I The Past living 
again, with all its wonder of passion, its uncon¬ 
trollable love. He went to the window, leaned outj 
a white mist hovered over the dark valley. His 
eyes pierced it deeper. He was again a desper¬ 
ate man, holding a woman in his arms—Mad 
Martini . . . 

When the sketch was finished he painted it on 
ivory, framed it in silver, put it in a velvet case, and 
sent it to Joseph as a souvenir of their meeting. It 
was a speaking likeness; it went over the sea, a 
message to his first love, 

10 

The Garrisons were “at home.” 

The reception tonight was in honor of a dis¬ 
tinguished Englishman. Julie stood before the 
mirror, putting the last touches to her toilette; she 
wore a creamy lace decollete gown, with splashes 
of red velvet. The Gonzola diamonds glittered in 
her corsage. 

Her maid handed her a letter and package. It 
was from Joseph; now the evening would be 
perfect. 

The boy was full of hope, enthusiasm; he had 
just returned from Switzerland, where he saw the 
Val Sinestra and the old chapel she had told him 


274 VAL SINESTRA 

about when he was a child, at night, before he went 
to sleep. 

I visited an artist who lives near there. He’s been in America; 
he didn’t say much about himself, but he drew me out to get 
atmosphere for a portrait he made of me. which I am sending to 
you, with my best love. I am writing him a long letter; I hope 
he will answer. He’s married to a wonderful woman; they say 
she has magnetic power, and it is true; she drew out all my 
secrets. I had to tell her about Ruth. She loves her husband with 
her whole soul—her eyes never leave him. They have a son, a 
big strong peasant lad. Mother, the artist is the most interesting 
man I have ever met; his hair is turning gray. He must have 
had a terrible struggle when he was young. I think he starved; 
he has deep lines in his face. I had to tear myself away. I love 
him. Mother, I love him! and I’m sure he loves me. When I 
left, he put his arms around me and kissed me; I felt his heart 
beating in big throbs. 

“Martin’s heart-beats!” 

She opened the package; Joseph laughed back at 
her. She gazed and gazed, until the young face 
vanished, and she saw Martin, with her boy in his 
arms. 

She sank down in her chair in a rush of hysterical 
joy. 

Martin alive! Happy; no! no! not happy— 
content, peaceful, at work. How wonderful! 
Those two had met; they loved each other. God 
had given her absolution. How thankful she was! 
how thankful! 

She sprang up, peered into the mirror, and saw—• 
a white despairing face with spotted gray unkempt 
hair; it faded slowly; youth had touched it. A 


VAL SINESTRA 


275 


beautiful smiling woman was reflected there, with 
head erect, triumphant, free from that haunting 
fear of years. 

She put out the lights and went to the door with 
resilient steps—then stopped, suddenly grew pale, 
as she looked back. The room was shadowy; one 
lamp shone down on the little table beside her bed, 
bringing out in sharp relief, the torn old Hebrew 
prayer book, beside it an ivory crucifix turning yel¬ 
low, and—a beautiful rose, eternally young— 
symbols of her soul’s secrets, its melody, its 
madness. 






















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